Losing to Win
by darcyfarrow
Summary: With the arrival of Emma in Storybrooke, Rumplestiltskin awakens from the curse and learns Regina's had her revenge upon him–by marrying Belle off to his only friend. The situation becomes even more complicated when Belle and Dove learn they're about to become parents.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N. This story is named for a song that Robert Carlyle has said he listens to when he's preparing to play Rumplestiltskin: Kasabian's "Underdog." **

* * *

Today's _Mirror_ reports that by the latest count, Storybrooke has 3,016 inhabitants. As the customers in Granny's Diner comment on the article–for there's absolutely nothing else in the newspaper to comment upon–no one remarks upon the odd fact that this year's count is exactly the same as last year's and the previous year's. No births have added to the number; no deaths have taken from it; no one's moved in or out; and no one notices.

As he opens the door to Granny's Diner, Mr. Gold catches snatches of conversation about the article, but it comes to a gear-grinding halt when he steps inside. The diners glance sideways at him; when he looks into their faces, they busy themselves with cups and cutlery.

Gold approaches the counter, eyes the red vinyl stool with disgust, then eases himself slowly onto it, subtly leaning on his cane. Ruby ends her chitchat with the sheriff in mid-sentence and rushes to her post behind the counter, her pencil already busy writing "Gold's usual" on her pad before she asks the question: "The usual, Mr. Gold?"

The landlord nods curtly and looks around at the other customers. When he swings back around to face the cup of coffee she sets before him, he's not scowling as much as when he first entered: after scanning the crowd and totaling the prices of their meals, he's concluded that Granny's taken in enough to pay the rent today.

"Mornin', Mr. Gold."

Everyone looks up at the only man in town who ever bids Gold a good morning and means it: his jack-of-all-trades, Josiah Dove. Dove seems to genuinely like Gold, though when asked why, all he can do is shrug and say, "He's always played me fair." But then, Dove likes everyone.

And on his arm this morning is one of the reasons why: his sweet little wife, Belinda. She stands five-one in her high heels, to Josiah's six-nine, but they've been together so long no one notices the difference any more. Besides, they make each other happy, and that's a rare thing.

"Morning, Mr. Gold," Belinda echoes her husband. Her voice is music, a clear, sweet bell that rings out across the restaurant as she greets the other customers by their first names. Only Gold is never spoken to with such familiarity, even by the Doves, even though they both have worked for him forever.

Once a week while Gold's at his shop, she marches into his big pink house on the hill to cook and clean. When she exits in the late afternoon, she leaves a spotless house, a well-stocked larder and a plate warming in the oven and she carries home in her pocket a shopping list Gold has written out and her and Josiah's paycheck. Unlike her husband, she rarely crosses paths with Gold. Clearly, everyone realizes, that's Gold's preference, not hers, for when she speaks of him it's always with respect and a hint of fondness. But that's Belinda for you: she finds something nice to say about everyone.

It's rumored that Gold actually converses socially with Josiah as they work, commenting upon the weather or taxes or some antique he's restoring. Josiah will neither confirm nor deny this rumor. He keeps all his employer's secrets, especially those that might tarnish the Meanest Man title.

As they walk past him to seat themselves in a booth, Mr. Gold gives the couple a half-smile and a greeting that's a couple of degrees warmer than his typical polite responses. He's unfailingly polite, Gold is, but never warm, not even to the children who walk past his shop on their way to school.

As Gold finishes his coffee and dry wheat toast, he drops three dollars onto the counter and Ruby thanks him. He stands to leave and Belinda calls out after him, her blue eyes twinkling, "Trout almondine tonight, Mr. Gold."

Gold pauses just a moment to almost smile at her. "Thank you, Ms. Dove. I look forward to it. Rent collection today, Mr. Dove. I shall expect you at nine."

"See you then, Mr. Gold," Josiah answers.

* * *

Head high–though he sneaks glances downward to make certain he doesn't trip over breaks in the sidewalk–Gold strolls six blocks to his shop. He enters through the back and moves to the counter, where he opens his ledger and admires the ever-growing column of numbers. He likes Rent Day and doesn't hide the fact from the public. What he does hide is the fact that he likes Rent Day not only for the money he collects, but for the excuse to be out and about.

No one suspects, except the Doves, and they'll never tell: the brief moments of social interaction he gets with his tenants on Rent Day provide something more than an income for the Meanest Man in Town. Comfort, he has, and by most standards, a good life, but friends or family, he has not. Only the Doves leave a Christmas card in his mailbox in December and a birthday card in April. Only the Doves pay attention to whether he eats properly or gets enough sleep. Only the Doves seem to care how he answers when asked, "How are you?"

Sometimes, when business at the shop is slow (when isn't it?) and he hasn't any broken antiques to repair, Gold reaches into a secret drawer in his worktable, takes out a box of dominos and invites Dove to play.

On those days, when customers wander in, Gold is sometimes caught in mid-smile.

Twilight has snuck up on the village by the time Gold returns to Granny's, this time to collect the rent. While Dove has been collecting from the residential neighborhoods, Gold has been collecting from the businesses. The diner is always last on his stops, so that he can enjoy an Irish coffee before he goes home to the plate warming in his oven. Something's off-kilter today, though: Regina's maid Marian, who pulls occasional waitressing shifts, informs him that both Lucas women are in the inn–with a guest.

"With a–" Gold begins to repeat, then he remembers it won't do for the Meanest Man to seem not to know a stranger has arrived in town. "Thank you, Ms. Nottingham." He pushes through overgrown hedges to find the inn. He can't remember having come inside before, but he shoves the door open as brazenly as if he owns the place, since he does.

Granny is indeed busy registering a guest–one can't very well say "new guest" since the inn has never had any. Ever. Gold stands back, eavesdropping in amazement he manages to hide: not that Granny or Ruby notice him; they're fixed on the stranger in red leather who's asked for a room for a week. Fumbling, Granny opens the dust-covered registration book and spins it around for her guest to sign.

"Now, what's the name?"

"Swan. Emma Swan."

A flash of light, like a lightbulb exploding, goes off in Gold's head, momentarily blinding him, and he thinks he hears the echo of a semi-maniacal giggle from somewhere behind him. As he stands there, seemingly unflappable, his hands folded on the head of his cane as he waits to speak to Granny, he's fighting for mental survival against the barrage of voices and faces attacking his brain. Memories, he realizes, of another life, another world, where he was the most powerful sorcerer in all the lands. Where he had everything except the thing he valued most. . . where the quest to have everything drove away the people he valued most.

But that will soon come to an end, thanks to the arrival of the stranger in red leather. "Emma!" He smiles at her, ignoring the creeped-out look she gives him. It doesn't matter what she thinks of him; her destiny is about to unfurl, and when she fulfills it, she will bring him back his long-lost son, the only thing he wants, the only thing that truly matters.

Granny hands him a wad of cash. He pockets it quickly, for it embarrasses him somehow. Now, for the first time, he senses how artificial the power of money is: the woman standing before him has the real power and she doesn't even know it yet; he will have to help her discover it, and then she'll lead him to his son.

"Enjoy your stay, Emma."

As he leaves, the werewolf gives him a look he can't decipher. No matter. She doesn't know they've been living a lie for three decades. She won't awaken to herself for another year.

Making a believer of a savior takes time.

Gold hurries back to his shop to get to work on a plan to save the savior. He's in his workroom writing out a plan (in the language of his childhood home, a tongue not spoken in three hundred years) when the bell above his door tinkles.

Annoyed, he grabs his cane, but before he can make it out to the front, a sweet voice calls him. "Mr. Gold? It's me, Belinda."

His heart stops.

"I, uh, wanted to ask you about something."

No, _not_ Belinda. That's a lie, just one of 3,016 lies fabricated by Regina's curse. Not Belinda. Not Dove's wife.

"I was dusting the curios in the cabinet in your dining room." Her voice increases in volume as she approaches, her sneakers squeaking on the wood laminate floor (fake! Like everything else in Storybrooke). "Mr. Gold? Are you here?"

He can't make his tongue work. That's not Belinda Dove out there. It's Belle.

He clutches the edge of his worktable.

The curtain rings rasp as she draws the back the curtain that separates the workroom from the public floor, that separates her from him. Her hair's pulled back in a ponytail and she's wearing faded jeans and a sweatshirt, the clothes she always wears when she cleans, but she may as well be dressed in diamonds and gold (his gold). As she dimples at him, unafraid of the Meanest Man in two worlds, she's just as beautiful now as the day he met her in her father's crumbling castle. Her sapphire eyes look directly into his. "Sorry to interrupt," she nods at the cuckoo clock on his table. "But I wanted to ask about this." She brings her hands forward to show him what she's holding.

The cup.

Their cup.

His head spins. He drops his cane.

She's by his side in an instant, crouching beside his bench. She sets the chipped teacup on the table so she can rest one hand on his knee and press the other to his forehead. "Mr. Gold? Are you okay? Do you need a doctor?" She brushes his hair from his forehead to get better access to his skin. "You feel cold. Clammy. Should I–"

"Some tea." He nods to the counter where he keeps an electric pot steeping. "Please."

She finds a clean cup in a cupboard, pours hot water into it and dunks a bag of chamomile into the water. "I still think I should get a doctor," she protests.

"Charlatans," he scoffs. "No, I'm perfectly well. Just tried to stand up too quickly, you know."

"Oh, yes, I've done that before." She doctors his tea with two lumps of brown sugar. No one else in Storybrooke–indeed, on the planet–takes brown sugar in their tea. It doesn't occur to her to ask about that quirk of his, nor to ask how it is that she even knows his preference: he never told her about it–in this world.

She brings him the tea and watches anxiously as he sips it. "Perfect. Thank you–" he can't bring himself to say her name. It would be a lie, and he won't lie to her any more. ("I don't want you any more"–the bigest lie in his life, after "All I want is your happiness, Bae. If you can find a way, I'll do it.")

She tests his forehead again. Her hand smells of lemon furniture polish, but her hair, as she leans over him, smells of roses, as it always did, and he's sure it's just as silky. "Well, you seem to have improved." She pulls her hand away too soon. "I'll, uh, leave you to your cuckoo."

"Wait. You had a question?" Anything to get her to stay, but he hopes she won't ask about the meaning of the chipped cup.

"Oh, yes." She touches the special cup. "I wondered if you want this thrown out. It's broken."

He runs a finger over the rim. "Only chipped, dear, not broken. As with many things in this life, it's slightly damaged but serviceable."

"Okay." She picks it up again. "I'll put it back. Anything else I can get for you before I go?"

He can think of many things, but he shakes his head. "No thanks."

She smiles as she starts for the door. "Call if you need anything. Trout almondine tonight, and rosemary potatoes."

"Sounds delicious." He lets her go. He wants to seize her waist and pull her into his chest for a kiss that never ends, a kiss he can finally give her, now that he's free of the Dark curse. Except this time she's the one who's cursed, and his kiss won't break it. Even if it could, he wouldn't dare. What would it do to her, to wake her up now, a full year before the savior will break Regina's curse? He's been awake only three hours so far, and he's already confused and frustrated as hell. What would it do to her, when she knows nothing about the real purpose of this curse?

When she realizes she's been sleeping with a man she doesn't love?

Rumplestiltskin chokes on his tea. Chokes with jealousy, for his true love has been making love for thirty years to his only friend.

"Belle!" He leaps to his feet. He stumbles onto the main floor, but she's gone. Thank the gods. For he would have seized her and kissed her and babbled his love for her, if she were still within his reach, and that would have been torture, for, being an honorable woman, she would have pushed him away, walked out of his life completely, as would her husband.

But she's alive, thank the gods, alive and unmarked–Regina lied, obviously, about the clerics and the flaying, and he's never been so relieved to find out he's been hoodwinked, though he vows he'll make Regina pay for that lie. And in a year, when Emma breaks the curse, she will remember who she is and what they had together.

If she'll forgive him.

The clock he's been oiling suddenly chooses this moment to taunt him: "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

If it were anyone else–that toothpaste-commercial model they call Prince Charming, say, or the gods-gift-to-nobody corpse-thief that claims to be a healer, or the stammering umbella boy–anybody else but Josiah Dove (who would without hesitation lay down his life for a friend, even the dubious one who signs his paycheck once a week), Gold would swoop in like a hungry hawk and take what's his, take the woman the Fates selected for him long ago and bound to him in ties no curse can put usunder. . . .

No, he wouldn't. That would be stupid, and Rumplestiltskin/Gold may possess many undesirable qualities, but neither in this life nor the previous one has stupidity ranked among them. He knows the curse better than anyone (better even than she who cast it, and he counted on the hotheaded sorceress' failure to bother reading the fine print to build in certain loopholes and trapdoors to his curse). If he were to attempt to tamper with the fake lives the curse wrote for himself, Josiah or Belle (_Belinda_, he must remember: Belinda in this world)–if he were to, say, send Josiah on some fool's errand to a city far away so that Belle/Belinda would be left unguarded, ready to fall prey to the Schemer of Storybrooke, the curse would merely block his move with another, more dastardly move of its own, for it is written in stone (and blood and fire) that Belle/Belinda French and Josiah Dove are happy husband and wife, flaunting their joy under the noses of all the lonely people around them, most especially the man Belle is truly meant to be with. All to amuse an envious queen who thinks she can outmanuever her master.

But the stone will shatter, the blood will wash away and the fire, burn out, with a single kiss born of pure love, when the savior fulfills her destiny. It's just damn hard waiting, when Belle is an arm's length away.

He dreams of her, the caresses, the kisses, the sweet promises that should have been exchanged when they had the chance in the Dark Castle, had he not been such a narrow-minded fool as to assume she would break his power and steal him from Bae. The truth, he learned after she left, is that her faith in him made him stronger, and that in love, there is always another path to reunion.

As his heart reaches for her, his body, forgetting it's three hundred years old, hungers as it never did for another woman. He dreams and twists in his bedsheets and wakes up alone in the dark, sweating, burning. She looks exactly as she did in the Enchanted Forest, mountain-stream-clear blue eyes, tumbling auburn hair, saucy I've-got-you-figured-out smile. Even her accent, her gestures, her walk are the same. Damn Regina, who planned it that way to torment him.

This time, however, they live in a world of short skirts and low necklines, and mores that would've made their Forest counterparts blush. Even the snow-white schoolteacher has slept with men without the validation of marriage. An affair, while fodder for gossip, would not call for a duel, as it would have in the Forest.

Gold could do it, too: the Doves are both too sweet and innocent to suspect him of evil plots and lustful imaginings. He could manipulate her into an affair and leave everyone convinced, after it was over, that it was Josiah's fault.

But that's what stops Gold: not the loss of his only friends, not the anguish an affair would cause them, but the certainty that it _would_ _be_ _over_, just a short-lived fling, and then the curse would yank Belle from him again. Temporary isn't good enough–it's worse than not at all. For what would Belle think of him when the curse breaks and she awakes, to find her beloved has used her so?

Gold thinks about this as he watches Ms. Dove buy her groceries, wash her car, weed her garden, deposit her paycheck. From the tinted windows of his Cadillac and the picture windows of his shop, day after day he watches her, and loves her, and respects her husband, and hates Regina. For someone must take the blame for the jealousy and yearning that rob him of his sleep and his appetite, musn't they? And only when he's so entangled in his damp sheets that he can't escape the truth does he take a portion of the blame onto himself. (He washes the sheets himself so she won't suspect, and when he replaces them, he musses his bed to make it appear slept-in.)

He's a jaded soul who's seen the worst mankind can do–who's _done_ the worst mankind can do. He doesn't fool himself into thinking that when Emma kisses the curse away, a month, a year, a decade from now, Belle will run into his arms and Josiah will wave a cheery goodbye to her and offer to stand best man at the wedding. There will be confusion, guilt, loneliness, and especially when they learn of Rumplestiltskin's role in the curse, anger. In the end, they will turn on him, his friend and his beloved and everyone else, turn on him, and then turn away in disgust. As everyone always has.

"How sad," he overhears the teacher say to the waitress one morning, just before he enters the diner. "The only way he can persuade anyone to come around him is to pay them."

"Might be sad," the waitress allows, "except he brings it on himself."

"He's an odd one. Impeccible manners, and always so well put together, but. . . ."

"if you touched him, you'd get frostbite, he's that cold."

"Still, Belinda speaks well of him."

"Belinda speaks well of everybody."

Then Gold yanks the diner door open and crosses the threshold, and they stop talking.

Weeks, months pass and stubborn Emma digs in to Storybrooke but seems no closer to believing, and the late-night voice that has been whispering to Gold of the intimate, passionate things that Josiah must be doing with Belle in their little white house across town, now starts to snarl. He is Rumplestiltskin, damn it, powerful and conniving; he takes what he wants and those who dare deny him are crushed beneath his boots. He bought Belle, paid a fair price for her–she took his offer willingly; she gave her vow of "forever." She belongs to him, regardless which world they reside in, which names they live under.

So he watches her from his windows, plays dominos with her husband and struggles to be patient with the savior.

* * *

Emma seems no closer to believing, and yet family by family, the curse is starting to–not break, yet, but pull apart at the seams. Charming awakens from his coma. Hansel and Gretel are reunited with their father. Thomas and Ella are reunited and their baby, delivered (and another intricate, elaborate scheme comes to fruition, with the savior owing Gold a large, unnamed favor).

And a change creeps over Belle, so subtle that it's weeks before she becomes aware of it herself–weeks that leave Gold guessing as to whether he's imagining things.

It starts with her coming later to clean his house, so that she's still there, just taking his dinner out of the oven when he walks in at 7:15, as he has every night since Storybrooke was created. The first night it happens, she's embarrassed and apologetic. "Oh! I overslept this morning, got a late start." He doesn't believe her. Not Belle of the Forest nor Belinda of this world has ever overslept. But he pretends to accept her apology and her promise it won't happen again–until it does, the next week and the week after.

He finds she's cooking more than he can consume–double portions, in fact–so he invites her to dine with him. They both pretend her husband will be home late and she's glad to have someone to talk to, instead of going home to an empty house. He wonders what she is telling Josiah, but he doesn't ask; for his part, Dove is just as cheerful as ever. As they converse over her experiments in exotic cooking, he wonders what she finds to talk about with Josiah. Though good-natured, Dove lacks her curiosity, her interest in books and movies. He prefers to talk about the cars he restores as a sideline business, or the results of a fishing or hunting weekend.

Gold opens her ears to classical music; Belle opens his eyes to ballet (alas, only on TV; they both know a trip to New York or Boston is out of the question). Her stays grow later and later. She must, after all, wash the dishes after dinner, and by then she needs to put her feet up for a few minutes' rest before she drives home. As the weeks flow into months, he finds himself seated beside her on the couch each Wednesday evening until ten, when she finally uncurls herself and goes home.

Is it cheating? Not in the legal sense, but there's an emotional and intellectual connection growing (or rather, uncovering itself) between Gold and Belinda, and as Dove comes in the shop's back door each Thursday morning with his fulsome grin and booming "Morning, Mr. Gold" it sure feels dirty. Not enough, though, for Gold to put a stop to it. And how can it be cheating when Belle is Rumplestiltskin's beloved? Gold ponders this often, and feels a stab of comaraderie when a confused Nolan stumbles into his shop and stares in near-recognition at Emma's unicorn mobile. He almost commisserates, too, with the dwarf who's besotted with a fairy/nun (either one untouchable). How much we have in common, Gold is tempted to say to the cuckolded husband and the starcrossed admirer; but not even the fencepost-dense Nolan or the half-drunken Leroy would believe that a monster could love a lady, and she, him.

He finds Belle looking at him sometimes with glances that reveal both perplexity and familiarity . . . bordering on intimacy. She finds excuses to touch him–never suggestively, but not exactly appropriately for an employee. He finds excuses to allow her to touch him. She offers, one evening, to teach him to waltz, encouraging him to lean on her a little, to take his weight off his ankle. She smells of roses, just as she used to, and she flows around him like a summer rain. After she leaves, he has to belt back a scotch to get to sleep that night.

It's nature, it's destiny, the way she touches him, the way he stares after her as she walks out his door. They were meant to be together, and when the curse is broken–and oh, he does some desperate things to push Emma along–they will be; they will be in the open the lovers they are drifting into becoming now in secret. They will awaken to themselves and go out, together, inseparable, into this world to find Bae, to find Rumplestiltskin's redemption, and perhaps they will never go back, not to the fake town or the enchanted castle. His wish fulfilled, they will chase hers, visiting all the places for which she's been collecting travelogues.

It's this certainty that keeps him sane when she walks away on Wednesdays. It's her soul, which wickedness, despite its proximity, has never tainted, and Josiah's loyalty, which worlds have tested over and over but which has never wavered, that keep Rumplestiltskin at arm's length. He sins with her and against them, but only in his dreams.

* * *

And then everything changes again.

She calls in sick one Wednesday, just about the time it seems Nolan will leave his "wife" for Mary Margaret and all of Regina's plans will unravel. Gold misses Belle as he dines alone on canned spaghetti, and he finds dark thoughts creep into his mind as he worries over ways to protect Mary Margaret from Regina while Emma is still getting her act together. He's recognized, ever since the Robin Hood incident, that Belle rehumanizes him, and without her gentle influence, the darkness is harder to resist. It becomes irresistible when, on the following Wednesday, he comes home to find his dinner in the oven and his beloved already gone for the night.

She's left a note on the kitchen counter: "Sorry, Mr. Gold, for missing work last week. Had a bout of morning sickness. Beef stroganoff in the oven. Have a good week. Belinda."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"Good lord! Mr. Gold, I–crap, this is awful. Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Every one of the counters shattered! They even smashed the Mickey Mouse phone. About the only things they left alone were the unicorn mobile and the canoe."

"Too high to reach," Gold mumbles.

"Did you call the sheriff yet?"

Gold's mouth twitches; he's tempted to reply _You mean the one I just got elected?_

Josiah holds the curtain that separates the front of the shop from the workroom. He starts to step forward, then reconsiders and retreats back into the workroom to examine the back door. Gold is behind him, standing at the workbench, silent and revealing nothing in his expression as he polishes a brass candlestick.

"No damage to the back door," Josiah comments. "Didn't appear to be any to the front, either. I don't want to walk out there, maybe disturb the crime scene." He runs his fingers along the window sill. "No damage here." He turns to face his employer. "You didn't accidentally–nah, you never leave the door unlocked. Bet this had something to do with the election results. Some of Ms. Mills' goons."

"Never mind, Mr. Dove." Gold doesn't make eye contact; he simply continues to polish the candlestick.

"I'm the only other person in this town has a key for this shop," Josiah produces his keyring from his pocket. "And I swear, Mr. G., this key never left–"

"Never mind, Mr. Dove."

"–my. . . ." Dove stares in amazement at his boss as he begins to figure things out. He drops the keyring into his pocket and just stares.

"It's been quite some time since you've had a day off. Why don't you go home, Mr. Dove? Consider it my congratulations on your delightful news." Gold still doesn't look up.

Josiah swallows hard. "I'll, uh, see you tomorrow morning, then."

"Enjoy your day."

Josiah turns to leave, but pauses with his hand on the doorknob. His voice reveals bewilderment. "Mr. Gold?"

The pawnbroker finally looks up.

"There's shards of glass sticking to your jacket."

* * *

He closes the shop for a couple of days, retreats to his cabin, where Belle and Belinda have never been, where there's no trace of her except in dreams. Someone has been here–someone broke the lock and came in and used his blankets, leaving them in a musty heap on the rocking chair. He builds a bonfire outside and burns them. Later he'll send Robin Locksley, the locksmith, out here to affix new locks. Josiah could do it, of course–would expect to, if he knew about the cabin; repairs are a big part of his job. Hell, Josiah's feelings would be hurt if he found out Gold hired Locksley. But there's no way to explain it that doesn't lead to more questions, more hurt: I don't want you to know about this place, where I come so I can stop thinking about your wife.

This is a fishing cabin. Nothing here is soft or sweet. But he dreams about her anyway. He gives up and goes back to work.

* * *

It's a slow afternoon–many of them are–so Josiah's been sweeping up in the backroom. But mostly, he's been talking about the baby, showing off the sonogram image. Gold can't make out anything, but Josiah swears he can.

"Up for a rematch?" Gold snaps, just to get him to shut up.

"Sure." Dove pushes his little pile of dirt into a dustpan and dumps it in the trash. He sits down at the workbench.

Gold opens the domino drawer, but something nasty takes hold of him and he wheels around instead, unlocking from a glass case a handcarved chess set he acquired from a Chinese emperor in another life. "How about something a bit more challenging?"

Dove shakes his head. "Sorry, Mr. G., I couldn't give you a decent game. Never played chess before."

"I'll teach you. It's not much more complicated than checkers."

"I don't know. I've heard it's hard to learn . . ."

"I'll go easy on you until you do."

That's a lie. Gold plays as though blood is at stake. Dove reddens, sensitive enough to suspect what's going on but unwilling to distrust a man he considers to be a friend. Game after game, Dove becomes so flustered he can no longer remember the names of the pieces, let alone how they move.

The postal carrier rescues him. As he goes to the front to take the mail, Dove chuckles nervously. "Sorry to let you down, Mr. G. Dominoes is more my speed. But I hear Archie's a good player. You should ask him next time." He lays the mail on the workbench for Gold to sort. "I should take the storm windows down now. I'll wash the primary windows while I'm at it."

Gold stares at the rook in his clenched fist. Well, no one ever accused him of fair play, but he doesn't feel much like a winner right now.

* * *

He smells her perfume on his bedspread. At first he wonders if she lay down here when she cleaned today. Did she curl up on his bed, thinking of him, clutching his pillow? He allows exactly five minutes of that fantasy before he scoffs aloud. She just made the bed, that's all, that's enough to leave a trace of her perfume. If she lay down here at all, it was to rest; in her condition, she must tire easily.

That night he can't bear to lie in his own bed. He moves into one of the guest rooms. Permanently. When he leaves for work on Wednesdays, he locks that bedroom. She must notice, but she leaves no note to ask about it.

* * *

"How can you work for him?" A young woman seated across Belle is asking as Gold enters Granny's Diner. "You know what he did to Ashley, don't you? If not for Emma–" She suddenly leans back in the pleather booth as the subject of her gossip enters and ambles to the counter.

But Ms. Dove is seated with her back to the entrance and, caught up in her frustration, doesn't catch the alarm in her companion's face.

"How do you know? You only heard one side of it, right?" Belle blurts. "No one, not even Josiah, has heard Mr. Gold's side of it. I mean, suppose you were an attorney and a nineteen-year-old came to you and said, 'I'm pregnant with a baby I can't take care of and my boyfriend dumped me and I'm broke. Can you find a good home for this baby?' What would you say? What about the baby, huh? Maybe, just maybe, Mr. Gold was thinking about what was best for the baby that Ashley and Sean didn't want. Ashley did sign a contract, remember." Belle throws a wad of dollars onto the table and slides out of the booth. "Sorry, I have to go."

Gold spins around so his back is to her as she storms out.

* * *

About the time that Emma foolishly aligns herself with Sidney, Dove fails to show up for work. He's never done that, never even been late, so Gold is concerned; he phones, but his call goes directly to voice mail.

A few minutes after he opens the shop, Regina barges in. "Doing your Mother's Day shopping early, Madame Mayor?" Gold mugs at her from behind the counter. "Ah, but alas, I can't provide shipping to the Enchanted Forest Cemetery."

Regina narrows her mascaraed eyes. "Funny you should mention mothers, because I happen to have some news about one: seems your trained ape's spunky little bride–"

Gold bares his teeth. "When you speak of Mr. or Ms. Dove, you will do so respectfully or not at all–please."

Regina's mouth clamps shut and she appears momentarily startled. Then she draws in a deep breath, adjusts her blazer indignantly, and glares at him, her eyes saying what her lips can't. "As I was saying, I have news: your. . . employees. . . are at the hospital. Seems Ms. Dove had a scare this morning, thought she was having a miscarriage, so her husband rushed–"

"A what?" Gold can't prevent the quaver in his voice, and Regina studies him closely.

"Why, Mr. Gold, if I didn't know you to be an unfeeling bastard, I'd think that was concern in your voice." She leans forward, sneering, but behind her stare, he detects uncertainty. She's beginning to wonder, he realizes, if he intends to do something about Belle.

He's not ready to show his cards yet, although he'd enjoy nothing more at this moment than to wrap his claw around her lovely throat. But he blinks innocently. "Hardly. But that information is newsworthy, indeed, pregnancies being so rare here. But I interrupted you. You had something more to tell?"

"Simply that it was a false alarm. Whale will keep her overnight for observation, but she's expected to be released in the morning. She had some spotting, but Whale says it's not that unusual."

"Really? You seem to have been given a great deal of information that most people would consider private." He blinks at her again. "Or is Ms. Dove another on your list of emergency contacts?"

"Nothing gets by me, Gold; you should know that by now. Nothing." She spins on her high heel and marches out.

As soon as she's gone, Gold's on the phone. Regina's not the only one with contacts at the hospital. His hand shakes as he dials, but he manages to make his inquiries sound all business. When he's finished, his hand isn't shaking any more. Coolly, as though he's just an employer demonstrating common manners, he phones Game of Thorns to order a get-well basket delivered to the hospital–not their largest basket, for that would raise suspicion, but not their smallest, for he's the wealthiest man in town and the Doves have worked for him forever, so some generosity is expected. His tasks completed, he wanders into his workshop to put on the teakettle, but he drops onto his bench instead, his head in his hands.

* * *

Dove shows up for work on time the next day, but he's not really ready to work. He needs to talk about his fears for his wife and child, and Gold just happens to be in his path. He talks it out, not noticing that Gold doesn't answer, not noticing that he's not the only man who cares about Belinda's welfare.

"Doc says it's common in the first trimester. Ran a bunch of tests. Belinda and the baby are fine, he said. No reason we can't have a healthy baby and a normal delivery. Still, it was a helluva scare."

"She needs to ease up," Gold finally says. "I'll reduce her hours but keep her pay at the same level. Half a day, once a week. I'll get temporary help for the heavy work."

"She won't agree to that: the same pay for half the work. An honest day's work for an honest day's pay, she'd say."

"We'll change the job title, then. Instead of a housekeeper, she'll be my cook. She can come in twice a week, three hours a day." He tries to smile reassuringly. "I'm still getting a good deal."

"I think she'd accept those terms." Josiah holds out his bear paw of a hand and Gold shakes it. "Thanks, Mr. G."

* * *

She comes now on Mondays and Wednesdays. She continues her experiments in exotic cuisine and dines with him to keep him company.

In the weeks she was avoiding him, she gained a little belly. Her ankles swell but her energy and spirits have risen. She still hangs around after she's washed the dishes. _The Best of the_ _Boston Ballet_ comes on Monday nights, and Gold has an Ultra HD 4K.

He wins her over with pixels and pirouettes. Nutcracker, indeed.

* * *

One Monday night, as they're watching Swan Lake (and in the back of his mind, Gold is scheming ways to bring the natural-born dragon-slayer out in Ms. Swan), Belinda is rubbing her aching ankles. It's so natural a gesture he isn't even thinking about it (he's wondering if Charming's sword will be too heavy for Emma) as he reaches for her: Gold simply pulls Belinda's feet into his lap and massages them. He knows a great deal, of course, about the relief of ankle pain.

Belinda settles deeper into the couch, lays her head on its arm, closes her eyes. A small sigh escapes her slightly parted lips.

His body stirs before his mind does, but gradually he becomes aware of his name being. . . moaned. . . in a half-asleep voice. It doesn't help the least bit when Belinda adds, "That feels wonderful. Please. . . don't stop."

He doesn't stop. He'll pay dearly for it tonight after she leaves. After she goes home. To Josiah.

And when Emma's slain the dragon, Regina will pay dearly for her prank on him and Josiah and Belle.

* * *

She talks less these days about Josiah and more about the baby and the nest she's building for the littlest Dove. Gold supposes that's to be expected; he missed out on Milah's pregnancy, so he doesn't know much about expectant moms. He doesn't mind at all when Belinda yammers on about the tiny clothes and furniture she's buying. In fact, he buys her an iPod, which he loads with Brahms, Chopin, Mozart and Delius; when she's resting, she listens to it, and they believe the baby may be listening too.

* * *

Josiah hands Gold a cup of coffee, then pouring one for himself, leans against the counter. "Once it's cleaned and those nicks are sanded out, it'll be a really nice frame." He gestures with his mug at the portrait frame Gold has laid out on his bench for examination.

"I think I'll leave the nicks in," Gold says. "They add character."

Dove lets the steam from his mug warm his face: he's just come in from outside, and it's rainy today. He takes a test sip, then determines the coffee is still too hot to drink and lets the mug sit in his hands a while. "We decided on names last night."

Gold's hands freeze in their examination of the frame. "Oh?"

"It was pretty easy, actually. We agreed Belinda would choose the girl's name and I'd choose the boy's. So if it's a boy, Albert, after my father."

No, it isn't, Gold is tempted to retort. Your father was a nameless bird.

"And Adelena if it's a girl."

In mid-reach for his mug, Gold knocks it over and the coffee splashes onto the frame. Josiah grabs a rag and swabs up the coffee before it can drip onto the floor.

"Adelena," Gold repeats. "Haven't heard that name in years. How did you choose it?"

"An old family name. Belinda thinks it was one of her great-grandmothers, maybe."

Oh, no. This name choice is from Belle, Gold is sure of it; she's awakening, reaching out to him through the fog of lies.

_**Your father? What was he like?**_

_**I don't want to talk about him.**_

_**Your mother? **_

_**Died when I was too small to remember her.**__ Rumplestiltskin scowled at Belle, the nastiness rising up in him. He would punish her for making him dredge up ghosts best left in the graveyard. __**Of Cupid's Disease**__. When she failed to react, he sneered at her. __**I don't suppose a **__**lady**__** would know what that is.**_

_She dropped her voice. __**Through the years of the war, I tended soldiers in the village hospital. I know of the disease.**_

_His fingers twittered in nervous shame, yet he couldn't bring himself to apologize; he was supposed to shock. Instead, he offered a small revelation, something no one else living in this world knew: __**I was raised by my father's aunts. They taught me to spin. Maerwynn and Adelena.**_

_**Lovely names**__, Belle said. __**I think they must have also taught you to be a good man.**_

_He snorted and walked away._


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The plot has Regina's big old fingerprints all over it. He realizes that the moment he finishes writing out the list of stolen items; he knows both the who's and the why's. Moe wants revenge for Gold and Dove having repoed the delivery van, and an ignorant job he's made of it too; half the stolen pieces aren't worth the price of the brown paper it would take to wrap them. One of the items is even broken. But then, the theft isn't really about the objects. It's about Regina forcing Gold's hand.

He doesn't disappoint her. He and Dove are lurking in the shadows when Moe arrives home after work, the day after the break-in. They make no actual threats, as a puzzled Moe will admit to Emma later; their very presence is sufficient to elicit a confession and surrender of the stolen loot–all except the object Gold most cares about.

Belle phones him. Her words come in spurts; she's ashamed and concerned he'll blame her. After all, she has a key for the pink house and knows better than anyone where the valuables are.

In an explanation that reminds him of her husband, she pleads, "Mr. Gold, I promise you, I've never told my father anything about your house. I keep your key on a ring with my keys. He never had access to it–"

"It's not your fault," Gold assures her. "Moe smashed a window and got in that way."

"Believe me, I've never spoken to Dad about working for you." He realizes she's afraid she's lost his trust and that matters to her more than the possibility of losing her job. "I assume he knows–everyone seems to–but I. . . Mr. Gold, I wouldn't betray you."

Her choice of words cuts him deeper than the loss of their chipped cup. "It's all right, Belinda. I know you didn't have anything to do with the burglary. I trust you completely. I, of all people, know how wrong it is to blame the child for the parent's crimes." It's a good thing she called instead of coming by; if she were here, he'd embrace her.

"Are we okay, you and me?"

"More than okay. Hey, how about your specialty tomorrow night? We both could use a pick-me-up."

"Sure, glad to." She laughs in relief. "Chocolate souffle it is. Thanks, Mr. Gold."

He goes alone that night to Regina's mansion, waiting until the light in Henry's bedroom goes out. He would rather have Dove with him, but he's not sure if that's because of what Regina might do or because of what he might do. But he has a pretty good idea that things will be said that Dove isn't ready to hear. After all, it's Belle's chipped cup that Regina ordered Moe to steal.

He manages to rein in his temper; it's the only way to keep–not the upper hand, for he's sure now one of his biggest secrets is out, but an even hand. He reminds himself that she could have withheld the revelation of her knowledge of his secret: clearly, she's scared, and that's why she forced this showdown. "Well, you really wanted that little chat, didn't you?"

"Apparently this is the only way I could do it."

Yes, it was. If he'd had his say, he would have stayed undercover as Mr. Gold until Emma broke the curse. But when Regina demands his name in exchange for the cup, he reveals it. Some instinct tells him that this cup is the key to Belle's recovery after the curse breaks: his possession of it, his fight to protect it, will show her, as nothing else can, that his love for her has always been true. And she's going to need to hang onto that thought when his role in the creation of the curse becomes known.

So Regina gets the information she wants, but he notices a tremble in her perfectly painted lips when he speaks his true name aloud for the first time in twenty-nine years. Her nervousness brings some balance of power back; he supposes, in a way, he's won the showdown, because she's certain now the curse is broken for him and he will, most certainly, seek to destroy her for what she did to Belle. The only questions are when and how he'll take his revenge.

It's always good to keep the enemy guessing, he thinks as he sets the cup in a velvet-lined box and carries it to his car.

He could almost feel sorry for Regina, for her only hope of a protector when the lynch mob comes for her is Sidney. She must be ruing the day she decided to attack the people Rumplestiltskin loves, but it's too late for apologies now, much too late.

But he will throw her off-balance before he throws her under the savior's bus: he comes to her, a few days later, and offers a plan for getting rid of Mary Margaret, a murder rap, and Regina bites. It's going to require a lot of heavy lifting on Gold's part, and with his bum ankle and twenty-nine years of soft living it will be a literal pain, but it will expose Regina's vendetta in such a way that Emma can no longer excuse it. Once Emma knows that Regina will do anything to destroy Mary Margaret, the sheriff will rise up, become the savior she's destined to be, and at last break the curse.

Taking the Evil Queen down along with it, of course.

It all begins with staging a murder.

* * *

"What do you think will happen to Mary Margaret?" Belle's eyes are red-rimmed as she glances up from the salmon she's taking out of the oven. She doesn't know the teacher all that well, but the whole town's in shock with the first murder in its entire memory (or so they think. Soon they'll know the truth about Ms. Nolan, but will they ever learn the truth about Graham's heart attack?).

"I can't discuss specifics of the case." He sets his briefcase on the kitchen counter. Inside are photocopies of records he's obtained from the sheriff, and tonight he will pretend to study them as they listen to the London Symphony Orchestra: but his pretense is only to assure Belle. "But I can say I have every confidence in her innocence."

Her mouth twists into a sad smile, and as he's skimming a finger across the icing of her Boston cream pie, she grasps his sleeve, leans into him and kisses his cheek. He blinks at her in surprise, then looks away quickly so she won't see his longing for more. "Thank you," she says, "for defending her."

He mumbles something about everyone's Constitutional right to a trial, then quickly changes the subject. But it's not because of attorney-client privilege, as Belle thinks; it's because of his own guilt. Soon Ms. Nolan's and Ms. Blanchard's suffering will be over, and soon the town will wheel on Regina like a mother mongoose after a cobra. They may never take the time to find out who's really behind this frame up.

Gold knows better than anyone that everything comes with a price. He'll have his revenge; better still, he'll protect Belle and Adelena from future attacks by the Queen; but he'll have to pay a steep price for it. He just hopes the price won't include Bae.

* * *

Yesterday the savior asked Gold for his help in rescuing Mary Margaret from a murder charge.

In his morning chores, Gold spends extra time sharpening Charming's sword.

In the evening, he stands over the sink to eat a can of ravioli, because it's Thursday. He rushes through the meal and makes his way down to his basement, where Belinda's never been. There are certain books there that he doesn't want anyone to see. Some men stash porn away; Gold stashes books about magic.

It's time to brush up. Just as soon as the savior's finished breaking the curse, she's going to rescue magic (unwittingly, of course) and then, between his magic and her bondswoman superpowers, they're going to find Bae.

He hopes the baby will be born before then. A pregnant woman shouldn't fly in her last trimester (Gold spends his alone nights reading about such things. He's always been a planner.)

He begins researching the spells he figures he'll need, including some defensive and offensive moves against pickpockets, muggers, TSA agents and Regina, who's going to pose a problem once she sniffs the magic in the air. He intends to strike first: prepared, he will gain control of his faculties before she does. He may be able to disarm her quickly, exact his revenge, then leave the rest for the Charmings.

There are a few ways to drain a sorceress of her magic–not many, and requiring rare materials that may not exist in this world, but he came well supplied. Along with his traveling spells, he begins to research those ways.

Belle will fuss when he takes revenge, even though it's on her behalf, and the baby's; he will strike fast, strike once, so Belle will have no time to intervene. But stripping Regina of her magic, surely Belle will see the good in that. As much damage in this world as she's done with only her money and her clout, surely Belle will see that a magic Regina would be catastrophic. And this town is full of innocents, soon to include two babies. Belle won't interfere when he takes Regina down, will she?

And he will have to. Despite Ms. Swan's assurance that she'll go "as far as it takes," he knows better than to expect her to disregard her scruples. She is, after all, the daughter of two heroes; that's why he elected her sheriff–and savior.

* * *

He waits for a Friday night, so there's no chance of running into the Doves, or much of anyone, for that matter: it's 3 a.m. and even the Rabbit Hole is closed. The engine of the RAV4 EV he's "appropriated" from Aladdin Toyota makes no sound as he rolls through town to the back of the public library. He enters the library through a side door hidden behind a mural, enters an elevator that really does function with the push of a button, arrives at the basement and walks along the rim of the cavern where Malificent slumbers, using only a flashlight to guide him. The path leads him into a chamber that resembles a storage area for mining supplies, but that's an illusion of the curse: no mining was ever done here. It took him five trips and cost him a day laid up in bed with his throbbing ankle, but he furnished this chamber, some weeks ago in the dead of winter, with a space heater, a generator, a cot, blankets, books, canned food and bottled water, and a pair of electric lanterns, all in preparation for his unwilling guest. She's been living here, chained by the ankle to the ground, for three days while the town searched for her, then another three days after she was pronounced dead.

He cuts off the generator before he enters the chamber. The lanterns go out and his guest calls, "Hello? Who's there?"

He shoots her thigh with a tranquilizer gun and waits. He knows the exact dosage for her weight, so it doesn't take long before Kathryn Nolan staggers to the cot and conks out.

Now comes the hard part: he lifts her in a fireman's carry and hauls her into the elevator. Once outside, he makes a dash for the SUV and nearly drops her when he pushes her into the back seat. Exhausted, he slides behind the steering wheel.

Next kidnapping, he's going to hire away one of Regina's goons, someone he can assign the dirty work to. Gold is just too old for this sort of thing.

He drives out into the woods–well away from anything identifiable, especially his cabin. He spreads out a blanket on the ground (it's still early spring and a bit chilly), drags Kathryn from the car and lays her onto the blanket. He leaves a bottle of water and a granola bar beside her. He's halfway back to the highway when he remembers he forgot something she'll need, so he goes back to slip a compass into her coat pocket. He's marked a big X at due east: he hopes she'll figure the rest out for herself.

By the time he makes it back to his pink house, it's five o'clock and his ankle's killing him. He can't climb the stairs to the porch, so he stretches out in the backseat of his Caddy and dozes until sunrise. He drives to the shop for a wash, a shave and a change of clothes, and at 7:15 drags himself into the diner for his usual. It's only after he seats himself on the wobbly round stool that he notices he's wearing mismatched socks.

A shriek pierces the morning quiet. People around him scramble; he stirs Sweet 'n' Low into his coffee and waits. He merely raises an eyebrow and continues to munch his dry toast when Granny runs in, shouting at the wait staff, "Ruby just found Kathryn! Alive!"

Mr. Gold checks his pocket watch. 7:32. Any minute now, the ambulance will arrive to take Ms. Nolan to the hospital. Emma will run to the jailhouse to release Mary Margaret. And Regina will be storming the pawnshop, demanding to know why Kathryn's alive and Snow White isn't being hauled out of town on a murder rap–across the town line, where the curse will do something horrible to her.

Gold sighs wearily. Ms. Swan had better get her curse-breaking rear in gear fast. He can't take much more of this excitement.

Not with a baby due in four months.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

**A/N. Confession time: the first three sections of this chapter are out of order for the series: they're based on "Dreamy," so they should have come before the Kathryn kidnapping, but, well, I just now thought of them and they add an element to the growing relationship between Belinda and Gold, so can we pretend I messed around with series order on purpose? If you're a Rumbeller, I think your tolerance will be rewarded. If you're not a Rumbeller, maybe you can call it dramatic license or chalk this up to the fact that it's a story in progress.**

* * *

Belinda/Belle may be losing faith in him. He perceives that her defense of his behavior is growing shaky when he opens the door to the diner one morning and hears her arguing with Ruby. "He's just looking for an excuse to throw them out onto the street," Ruby's claiming (and it's true). "One day late in their rent and he'll evict them."

"Well, they did know that when they signed the lease." But Belinda can't look Ruby in the eye. She changes the subject. "We should help Leroy and Mary Margaret sell those candles. If everyone in town bought just one–"

"I have a better idea," Ruby purrs. "Nobody gives two hoots for those ugly old candles, but every man in town would pay through the nose for a kiss from a pretty girl."

Belinda sputters. "What? You're not suggesting–"

"Yup. You, me, Emma, Ashley and a kissing booth. Ten dollars a kiss."

"That's more than a hundred kisses for each of us."

"Yeah, but they'll pay up, so pucker up, sister."

"Oh, I don't–"

Ruby feigns offense. "It's for the nuns!"

* * *

At the Miners Day Celebration, there's a long line at the cotton candy booth. There's a long line at the kettle corn booth. But the line that stretches all the way past the courthouse and to the library steps is the one leading to the kissing booth. Seven ladies and two men (Whale and Hopper) have been recruited for the work, and those who, like Belinda, are wed, have refused to kiss their spouses all month long, so that the husbands will indeed pay up. Josiah, who finds the whole thing uproariously funny (though he hasn't said as much to Gold, considering the town views the landlord as the villain of the nuns' story) has been skipping his lunches to save his pennies. He has enough for five quick kisses from his wife–or one very long one.

Gold has never attended a Miners Day Celebration, or any other celebration, for that matter. But in tiny ways, he finds his habits and his way of thinking are shifting. Besides, now's a fine time to provoke Regina.

So he strolls down from his shop and just as Madame Mayor is on stage yammering about what a wonderful town they've been blessed with, Gold makes his way to the foot of the stage. Though he's small and slight, the crowd parts for him; no one will stand within arm's length. Madame Mayor is patting herself–she uses the term "our city administration"–on the back for running such a safe and clean little town, and the crowd's dead silent because they're thinking of Kathryn, and suddenly, Gold snorts. That's all, just a single snort. He leans on his cane and blinks innocently, while Regina gapes at him and a titter ripples through the audience, eventually growing into a guffaw. Regina shuffles the papers on which her speech is printed and courageously plows on, but nobody's listening any more except Sidney.

Slowly, as though totally unaware he's being watched, Gold turns his back to the stage and walks away.

* * *

As she serves him dinner, Belinda fills him in on what he missed, concluding, "and her face turned as red as her blazer. Right after you left, most of the audience wandered off to the booths, so hardly anyone was there to hear her when she finished. Sidney was the only one to applaud."

"I'd heard that same speech before. I saw no reason to waste my time listening to it again," Gold comments. "Was the event successful?"

Belinda stops stirring the hollandaise sauce. "We're five hundred dollars short," she admits. "I know the rent's due tomorrow, and I know you don't usually–"

"Ever. I don't ever." He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket. "The hollandaise is scorching."

"Right." She turns away to rescue the sauce. When she sets a platter of halibut steaks on the table, she finds a fan of five one-hundred dollar bills where his napkin had been.

She picks up the money and holds it a moment, thinking. "You don't make charitable donations."

"No."

"Or loans."

"No."

She thinks for a moment more, then folds the money and slips it into her jeans pocket. Without hesitation she frames his face with her hands and kisses him.

It's not a kissing-booth kiss. It's not a lover's kiss. And though it lasts longer than it should, it's nowhere near enough for him, but he keeps his hands in his lap and his lips closed because she is still the wife of his only friend–and that's the _only_ reason he holds back.

When she draws away, her pupils are dilated and he has to look away, to the halibut, to catch his breath.

"I'll. . .pay you the other forty-nine later," she says, busying herself at the stove.

He won't put her in a compromising position. He's seen in her eyes what–or rather, who–he needed to see, for now. "Not necessary. That was. . . value for the money." He offers her an easy way out: "I believe there's some sorbet in the freezer that will go well with our dinner." He rises and digs around in the freezer, allowing the blast of cold air to cool his overheated face.

* * *

Belinda says she's proud of him for what he did for Mary Margaret. The whole town's talking about his generosity in defending the teacher without requiring payment. It stuns them (makes some of them suspicious, he knows).

He will have to tell Belle the truth, when the curse breaks: inform her that he's the bastard who put Mary Margaret in jail to begin with; even worse, he's a kidnapper. These crimes are, sad to say, just another day at the office for the Dark One, although this time his motive was unselfish: to prevent Regina from launching a direct attack on Snow. Now that it's all over, Storybrooke has one highly frustrated and vulnerable mayor, one less sham marriage, one reunited pair of True Loves, and a mother and daughter whose bond of trust has been tested and proven unbreakable.

Isn't that worth a few days of an abduction and a false murder rap? Belle will say no, but it was the only plan he could come up with on such short notice, once he realized Regina was on the verge of attacking Mary Margaret.

Still, he's pretty sure Belle won't see it that way. Alone at night in his study, he writes out his explanation on his legal pad. It goes through a dozen revisions and he still can't make it sound justifiable in terms Belle would accept.

He comes to understand why: his relationship with Belle is the only relationship he's had in centuries that isn't about power. In the very beginning, he tried to make it so, but he found he couldn't scare her with dungeons and morbid jokes; and then he found he couldn't bring himself to harm her, even a little, just enough to prove he was her master. It wasn't long after that that he realized he didn't want to be.

Perhaps, he decides after the thirteenth try at writing his apology, the confessions can wait. Once the curse is broken, there will be so much else to deal with. After he has Bae back, after the situation with Dove is worked out, after Adelena is born. . . and raised. . .and has a few children of her own. . .someday when he and Belle are warming their old bones in the afternoon sun, rocking on their porch in their creaky rocking chairs, someday when Belle's hearing aid isn't working right, he'll take her hand and confess to all his crimes. If she has any inclinations then about leaving him, he'll hide her walker.

* * *

He keeps staring at her belly. There isn't much to stare at, yet, but he stares whenever she's preoccupied with something else. He's captivated by the realization that a human being resides in there, sometimes sleeping, sometimes awake, sometimes sucking her thumb, and, he presumes, often thinking (about what? About the world she came from before she was sent to this one? Is Adelena taking in impressions of the world through her mother? Or has she been on this earth before and is she remembering?).

The creation of a human being is, he thinks, the ultimate magic; childbirth is the original portal jump.

Belle catches him sometimes, but his staring doesn't make her uncomfortable; the amazement on his face amuses her. He explains to her in hesitant phrases that he is a father to a child he's long been separated from; she's curious, of course, but doesn't press for details and when he adds that he doesn't know where his son resides these days, she doesn't do the Belle thing–doesn't prod him to search. In this life, Belle/Belinda is a bit more circumspect, a bit more patient with people's failings than she was in the days of the Dark Castle. Belle of the Marshlands was a puller, hauling Rumplestiltskin away from evil impulses; Belinda of Storybrooke is a nudger, directing people in indirect ways. He thinks Rumplestiltskin needed to be pulled, but Gold needs to be nudged.

In any case, he needs her in his life, even if she is carrying another man's baby. Both of those thoughts have taken some getting used to. It was only after Regina had declared Belle dead that Rumplestiltskin admitted to himself that Belle was exactly what he had been looking for without ever realizing he was looking: someone who would rekindle his faith in powers bigger than magic, who would restore his ability to give rather than just deal. Someone who would make him want to be human again, and then help him find the path back to his humanity.

Only Belle could change him. He needed her then and his need hasn't lessened. He needs her for the small things, he's thinking as he opens yet another can of slop and stands over the sink to eat yet another meal alone. And just as before, he needs her for the big things, for though he now looks human on the outside, he's still a jumble on the inside and he needs her to help him sort himself out.

But there's the other half of the deal: she's carrying another man's baby. If he could ignore two words of those five, he'd have no problem. If that baby were his, or if somehow, by some tremendous act of magic, that baby had been Belle's alone, he admits to himself he'd be over the moon. He'd gladly give Adelena his name, his home, his wealth, his love.

But in the Enchanted Forest, men seldom were so generous with children not of their blood. That was especially true of the nobility, but even in the peasant class, where Rumple had spent the first forty-five years of his life, and where it was common for women to be widowed early and to remarry, it was uncommon for the stepfather to adopt his new wife's children. Certainly, stepfathers took full advantage of the extra labor that an additional pair of hands, however small, could perform, but seldom did they accord stepchildren the same rights as natural children. Not even–and this had always angered Rumple–the right to call their mother's husband "papa."

Many of the old ways of thinking remained in Gold. In this particular case, Storybrooke had offered no alternative to encourage a man to change his way of thinking, for no one had ever married here, and until Alexandria, no one had ever been born here.

As Gold eats over his sink night after night, staring at Belinda's empty chair and counting the days until Monday or Wednesday, he concludes that he will be the trailblazer, Storybrooke's first stepfather. He needs and loves Belle, and as he watches her body change in shape and hue, he remembers how his life changed when Bae arrived in it–_every_ moment with Bae, he remembers. Oh, and he has so much more to give a child now–not just the money, though that certainly matters: the money will buy him time with the baby. He can close the shop, which doesn't turn a profit anyway; his family can live quite comfortably off the rental properties he owns. Hell, they could live nicely just off the interest from his bank accounts. He could retire, spend his days at home, taking care of and teaching and loving his family.

His family. His wife and his child. When he thinks in those terms, he's over the moon. But. . .Dove's ex-wife, Dove's child. He must think in those terms. Josiah has rights too. The child has the right to know its natural father, and not just legal rights. If Gold were to drive Josiah away, the child would hate Gold. Gold knows that for sure; he is so much wiser about people than Rumplestiltskin ever was.

He's already lost the love of a son; he can't bear the prospect of losing a second child, or watching the pride in Belle's eyes when she looks at him turn to shame for his selfishness.

There is an opportunity here, the dealer inside him points out. A chance for all three adults to parent this baby, if they can forgo possessiveness and old ways of thinking. They have a big advantage: they're standing on the solid ground of friendship.

There are only two questions that remain to be answered: can Belle and Josiah forgive him and learn to trust him again when they learn the part he played in the curse? And can Rumplestiltskin, his posessiveness a defense mechanism against the pain of repeated abandonments, trust that this baby's heart will have room for two fathers?

As he ponders this question, still staring at Belle's empty chair, he realizes what the question implies, and he admits it to himself: he wants this baby to love him, unconditionally, as Belle does. He wants to love this baby, unreservedly, as he loved Bae. He thinks he can.

When he comes home on Monday night to coq au vin and Beethoven on the CD player and a humming Belle, he imagines a high chair parked between his chair and Belle's. He imagines strained peas and stewed apricots and stained bibs and tiny rubber spoons. He imagines babbling undercutting Belle's humming. He imagines himself planting a kiss atop a fuzzy head and being rewarded with "da."

It doesn't matter, not really, if Adelena's last name is Dove, or if she has Dove's nose, or if she calls him "da" too. This is what Gold knows, but sometimes as he stares at Belle's baby bump, what he feels is less noble. In this world and the previous one, he was, after all, a grasping, greedy creature. He's going to need nudges and pushes from both the ladies in his life, if he's going to do things right this time.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"Hey, Mr. G., who'd have a key for the library?" Josiah asks as he prepares to take out the trash.

"The library?" Gold glances up from the stack of bills he's paying. "You don't want to go in there, Josiah. It's unsafe." Because in the basement there's evidence of a kidnapping, not to mention a drugged dragon that Emma hasn't got around to killing yet.

"Well, Belinda wanted a book." Dove yanks the drawstring tight, closing the trash bag. "Mary Margaret found an injured bird during that wild storm we had in March, and now Belinda's curious."

"About what?"

"Well, Doc Thatcher told Mary Margaret if the bird didn't reunite with its flock, it wouldn't live long. It'll mourn for its lost mate. See, it's a dove, and they mate for life."

"And did Ms. Blanchard succeed in getting the dove back to its flock?"

"She did. Close call, though. So now Belinda wants to read up on doves. She thinks it's a good sign. For our family, you know, because of the coincidence of our name."

"The mating for life thing," Gold murmurs. "I see. Well, I can vouch for what Thatcher said. In my younger years, I spent a little time with doves. I got to know a mating pair quite well; they built a nest on my estate. It's true: they bond for life. Courage, that was what I called the male; and his mate was Faith. When Faith passed away, Courage stopped eating. I had to feed him with an eyedropper. He was depressed for weeks, but he finally regained his strength, and I suppose, his hope." Gold looks closely into Josiah's eyes for a flash of recognition, any sign of awakening. If a glass mobile could spark a memory in Charming, surely hearing his own name and his mate's spoken could do something for Dove.

Josiah frowns, tilting his head upward and to the right—an indicator that he's reaching for a memory. But it flies away—driven away by the curse—and he sighs in annoyance.

"I have a key for the library. I'll go over at lunchtime and find a book for you."

"Thanks." Josiah picks up the trash bag. "Hey, Mr. G.? What happened to Courage?"

Gold studies his "I Love New York" coffee mug. It's one of a set he bought just after Emma came to town. There's one for London, one for Rome, one for Paris—twelve altogether. Whenever Madame Mayor has interrupted his lunch or his coffee break, she's found him drinking from one of these mugs. They are a promise for the future—to himself, that he will search for Bae; and to Belle, that as soon as they're reunited, he'll take her around the world, as she used to dream of. It's also his little private joke on Regina—his reminder that the curse will be broken—but a joke she's never caught onto.

"He grew strong again," Gold answers Dove's question. "Found work to do, friends, a place to be needed."

"Did he find another mate?"

Gold is slow in replying. "I believe he will. He has such a big heart, it would be a shame not to share it."

Josiah grins, satisfied with the answer. He takes the trash bag out to the alley, closing the door gently behind him.

"A _man_ may love for life too," Gold murmurs to himself. "I was a friend to you once, Josiah. I hope I will be again." He raises the New York mug above his head, brings it crashing down, smashes it against the worktable. A ceramic shard punctures the side of his hand, burying itself there until drops of blood wash it away. He watches the blood drip onto a half-written check (Josiah's pay, as it happens); he needs the distraction. He needs the physical pain, to take his mind off the emotional. But most of all, he needs to punish himself; it's a down-payment for the pain he will soon cost a pair of idealists who believe they've married for life.

* * *

"You broke our deal!"

Those are fighting words with Rumplestiltskin, but Regina doesn't care. He has no magic, so what harm can he do to her?

Then again, what harm can she do to him?

"I've broken one deal in my life, dear, and it certainly wasn't this one."

"Kathryn was to die and Mary Margaret was to get the blame." He would accuse her of possessing unmitigated gall, but he knows that behind her anger is hurt: despite all she's done to him, she still depends upon him as a mentor and confidant. She's still, in many ways, a child, and now that she's hung Sidney out to dry, Gold is the only potential ally she has left.

"Murder seems so much worse here, doesn't it? You can't just turn someone into a snail and then step on them. You didn't say 'kill her,'" Gold reminds her. "We agreed that something tragic should happen to her. Now, abduction is tragic."

"You made sure this would lead back to me, didn't you? You bastard." Regina finally broaches the unapproachable subject. "This is about getting even with me for Belle, isn't it?"

His lips curl. "Oh, it's about many things, but yes, let's start with Belle and your little joke on us."

"Think about it: I did you a favor."

If he hadn't had three centuries of practice in schooling his expressions, Gold's mouth would drop open right now. As it is, he can't keep from raising an eyebrow.

"When you threw her out of your Dark Castle and her father rejected her, I took her in, gave her a home. Really, Rumple, you should be thanking me. And then I brought her along here. Well, you know how the curse works: no True Loves could be matched here. If I'd given her to you as a lover, the curse would have forced you apart. Perhaps it would have made you her philandering husband or her a drug addict. The only way you could be close to her is if she was safely paired off with someone else, someone who was fool enough not to notice when you started sleeping with his wife." Regina is gloating now. She's lost her ally, her curse is breaking and her town will turn against her, but at least she'll win this battle.

His fingers dig into the handle of his cane. "We're through here."

But she leans in and adjusts his tie just to show she dares to touch him. "Poor dumb Dove. Has he figured it out yet, what you're really paying his wife to do?"

"Get out."

She backs away as his hand brings his cane up, even with his chest. "Really, Rumple! Threatening the one person who was thoughtful enough to bring along your little plaything." She turns on her heel and moves to the exit, but she blows him a kiss as she opens the door. "By the way, I see congratulations are in order." Then she makes a small frown. "Or could it possibly be Dove's hatchling? Oh well. Aren't we lucky to live in the age of DNA tests?"

She slams the door.

* * *

In the purchases Josiah made at yesterday's auction there is a box of beech wood, seven boards four feet in length, unblemished. Gold is no woodworker; he normally would offer this treasure to Marco. But as his fingertips trail over the perfect wood, he sees in his mind a detailed image of what this material must become. It won't be difficult, nor long in the making, and it will fill in his alone nights as he listens to Allegri and Schubert. As he sketches the design on brown wrapping paper, he knows where this cradle will go: at the foot of the bay window, the one that looks out onto the garden, in the largest of his spare bedrooms. He will paint the walls, now maroon, yellow, to invite in the sunlight; he will add a row of cutout animals along the baseboards, and he will build low shelves for toys and books.

* * *

Belle's tossing a salad as he walks into the kitchen and peeks into the crockpot. "Good old American Yankee pot roast tonight," she announces. "I thought it was time for some local cuisine."

"The perfect accompaniment for the Boston Ballet's _Don Quixote_," Gold says. "Cooked by an Aussie and served to a Scotsman."

"Are we worldly or what?" She says smugly. "You know, I always did want to travel to exotic places and come home world weary and jaded."

"Someday, I'm sure you will." After Emma gets a move on and breaks the curse.

"Do you ever think about going back to Scotland?"

"No." He's tempted to mention that he's never actually seen Scotland, that nothing about his "past" or hers is real. He wonders if, once she's awakened, she'll want to stay here, living as Belle French-Gold, daughter of a florist, wife of a pawnbroker, or go back to the Dark Castle. Or perhaps they'll start again someplace else. He thinks he'd like Connecticut, but he'll leave the decision to her.

She begins to set the table; he pours glasses of iced tea. They could take supper at the mahogany table in the dining room, but they eat in the kitchen instead, at his suggestion. The table is smaller, the chairs closer together.

"Mr. Gold?"

"Yes?"

"This is going to sound funny, but–did you ever have curly hair?"

He hesitates. He could–should–sidestep the question, but his heart's pounding with the possibility that she. . . .He has to test it. "As a matter of fact, I did, when I lived in a. . .more humid environment. Whatever caused you to ask that, Belinda?"

"I dunno, I–well, I had a weird dream last night. You were in it, and you were talking in a funny voice, and you were sitting in a tall chair, like a throne, except instead of ermine you were wearing–you're gonna laugh–leather pants and a crocodile-skin jacket. You looked like a medieval Jim Morrison."

Sparkly, scaly skin, serpentine eyes, rotten teeth, and what she remembers of his appearance in those days were the hair and the pants? He chuckles. And then he laughs aloud, because that's Belle, his stubborn, strong Belle, pushing and shoving her way through the curse's haze. Now that she's cracked the facade, she'll strike even harder. This is just the beginning: Belle may beat Emma to the finish line.

"Hey, don't laugh," Belle/Belinda protests. "You rocked those pants, dude."

"My dear, it's safe to say that's the first time I've ever been referenced in the same sentence as the word 'rocked.' A compliment, I presume?"

"No kiddin'. You ought to try that look sometime, the pants at least."

He chuckles again. "You'd never believe it to look at me now, but I did own a pair or two of leather trousers in my younger years."

"I knew it! See, I've always suspected there was a wild side to you, buried under all those stuffy suits."

He looks at her closely, and she cocks her head, a small frown forming as she's concentrating. He pushes just a little farther: "Under the civilized layers, alas, I'm a bit of a beast, dearie."

Her eyes widen.

He spreads his napkin across his knee. "Your dream was actually very perceptive. Hit the nail on the head, so to speak; rang the right bell."

Her face twists–confusion, frustration, a hint of alarm. He's immediately sorry for provoking her. He kicks himself mentally: he must bear in mind the overwhelming mix of memories and emotions he experienced in the first few hours of his awakening–and he had the advantage of having prepared himself for it. Belle is in a delicate condition; she must be nurtured through the awakening, not prodded into it. "Are you all right, Belinda?"

"Yes, I. . . just the hormones, I guess."

He dishes up a salad for her. "You'll feel better after you've eaten."

"Yes, that's what it is. I was in a bit of a rush and only had a cup of soup for lunch."

"You mustn't let that happen again." He spreads her napkin across her lap and loads her dinner plate with pot roast, potatoes and carrots.

"No, Mr. Gold, I should be serving you. That's what you pay me for. You shouldn't be fussing over me."

"And you've lived up to your end of the bargain." He pats his stomach meaningfully. "Let me take care of the clean up tonight." He sits down, filling his own plate. "This will be only the second birth in Storybrooke. It merits a fussing over."

"Hmmph! I hadn't realized that. Well, I always have been a bit beyond the norm."

"Unique." He raises his glass of tea in a salute. "And perhaps a trendsetter."

"Really?" She forks up a bite of carrot. "I guess it's like when you buy a new car, all the neighbors want one too."

"I have no doubt Adelena will be an inspiration for a whole new generation of Storybrookers." _And some of them ours, Belle?_ he wants to ask. _I'll love Adelena as if she were of my blood, I promise you, but we have room in this house and in our lives for two or three more, perhaps?_

"Thank you. That's kind of you to say."

"Plain prognostication. Kindness and I are strangers, dearie."

"No. You're just a bit beyond the norm too."

* * *

It's a Monday, as his stomach reminds him, but for the first time since Storybrooke was created, he doesn't hurry home after work. There's only one reason he'd forgo three precious hours with Belle, and that's the reason he's here at all: Baelfire.

His heart pounds as he follows the stranger's motorcycle to the outskirts of town. That motorcycle and Gold's Caddy are the only two vehicles on the seldom-traveled highway leading to the West Woods. Surely the rider—he's been introducing himself around town as "August Wayne Booth"—realizes he's being followed, yet he ignores his pursuer. Booth wants to be followed, Gold concludes, so he makes no effort to hide. Gold's heart pounds all the harder. So many indicators have led to this pursuit: Booth's snooping around the pawnshop, his seeking the Blue Fairy out (Blue! The exact same fairy he turned to, back in the Enchanted Forest), the fairy's remarks about Booth seeking a reunion with his long lost father after "a hard parting," but most of all, unmistakable, is the drawing Gold found when he sneaked into the room Booth rented: a very precise drawing of the Dark dagger.

Rumplestiltskin has dreamt a thousand times of the moment that's about to come. He's changed the setting, changed the timing, changed the dialog like a movie director tinkering with a script. He's imagined finding Bae again in a thousand different ways, but never did he dream that Bae would find him. It means one of two things, two mutually exclusive things: either Bae loves and forgives him, or Bae wants to protect this world from the Dark One. Which could mean Bae's come to kill Rumplestiltskin.

Everything Rumple has done for three hundred years has been to facilitate this moment. He's scared, but his need to see Bae—and his hope that Bae needs him too—has enabled Rumple to throw his fear in the back seat, climb into the Caddy and follow the motorcycle out onto this empty highway. Every moment of Rumple's life comes down to this.

Booth turns off the highway and onto a private dirt road. This road leads to Gold's cabin. "It's him!" Rumple gasps. It has to be: how else would Booth know to turn here? He's done his homework: he knows this is Gold's cabin and he's leading Rumple here, away from the cursed town, so they can talk in private.

Or so he can kill Rumple and not get caught.

As Gold shuts off the engine and slides out from the car, Booth is waiting, looking around. Looking for something.

Gold's heart stops; his tongue is a leaden weight in his desert-dry mouth. "I know who you are. And I know what you're looking for."

Booth stares at him. Something's wrong, something's wrong, but Gold can't see what it is: he's blinded by hope. "Well, then, I guess all the lying can stop, Papa."

It's only after Booth has taken the dagger and turned it on him—turned on him—that Gold realizes what was wrong: Bae's eyes were brown, large and brown like his father's, but Booth's eyes are blue.

Is this the price that Rumplestiltskin must pay for creating the curse?


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The Dark One has been played like an accordion in the hands of a street busker.

He's shattered, too shattered even to smash up his shop. That would require strength and he's been robbed of every ounce. He retreats to his basement, to the books, to the potions he's been experimenting with. He hides there through Tuesday and even through Wednesday as Belle comes and cleans and cooks. He emerges to apologize for missing dinner Monday night; "an opportunity arose–a business opportunity." She answers softly, "You don't have to apologize to me," and he has to duck out fast. Her patience, her kindness—her Belle-ness—makes him want to confess everything.

When supper is ready, Belle taps on the basement door and calls his name, his fake name, softly. When he first hired her, he instructed her to stay away from the basement, and she's always obeyed; though curiosity runs deep in her, honor runs deeper.

And sympathy even deeper. He's silent as she serves the meal (he doesn't even notice what she's prepared, though he manages to remember to thank her and he eats a few bites out of courtesy). She respects his privacy, doesn't attempt even a mundane conversation, and as she clears the table she moves quietly.

Once she's filled the dishwasher, he rises from the table. "Shall we?" he asks, as he always does; it's his invitation to the TV room.

She seems surprised. "Should I leave? Would you rather be alone?"

"Please stay." He sets a hand lightly on the small of her back. "I'm sorry I'm not good company tonight, but I still need. . . .Anyway, it's the Moscow Ballet's _Peter Pan_ tonight." All the more reason he requires her comforting presence. Someday, long years from now, he'll tell her the truth about Peter Pan, but tonight he'll pretend that this world's fantasy represents Pan accurately. Tonight of all nights, he can't bear to think about yet another betrayal.

Gold thinks he would have preferred that Pinnochio stab him in the chest to take the dagger away. It would have been more honest, at least, than pretending to be Bae.

Belinda sits on one end of the couch and he, the other, as proper. She picks up the remote and toys with it but instead of turning the tv on, she twists around to face him. "Mr. Gold? Do you want to talk?" The concern in her eyes slices right through him, right through the wall of disdain he's built brick by hard brick between himself and the world. There's a shimmer in her eyes, the beginning of a tear–that's Belle, he's sure of it, struggling to emerge so she can reach out to him in his terrible need. Belle knows without his explanation that he's cut to the quick. If she could break through, she'd open her arms without a word and he'd clutch her round the waist, lay his head in her lap, and she'd file her fingers soothingly through his hair, just holding him silently as he cried and cussed. And when he finally burnt himself out, she'd say, "August Wayne Booth is not worth another moment of our time. Screw him. We've got a savior to convince and your son to find."

But instead Belinda says, "Mr. Gold? I may not have any answers to offer, but I'm a good listener and I can keep a confidence, if you'd like to talk."

He shakes his head slowly. "Someday, Belle, but not yet. It's too raw."

She toys with the remote again. "Okay. Whenever you're ready, then. Should I turn on the TV?"

He nods, but just before she does, he grasps her wrist. "Belinda, would you call me by my first name?"

"All right," and she frowns. "I'm sorry, I don't know what it is. Your signature on your checks, it's just 'R. Gold."

The curse never gave him a first name. He's not sure he'd use it now, if he had one: yes, this world is very comfortable and the living is far easier here than in the Enchanted Forest; in fact, if not for Regina's little prank, he would probably have stayed here, living as Mr. Gold, after he reunited with his son. But thanks to Regina's sick joke, he's on fire now to recommit to his family and recover himself. . . if he could sort out who that is.

He will dare to at least take back his name–and if Regina should happen to hear Belinda use it, let that be a gauntlet thrown down. He's ready for that fight. "My name is Rumplestiltskin."

A flame flickers in her eyes. "Rumple. . ." He thinks she's remembering, but he soon learns she's just trying the word out. "Rumplestiltskin. An unusual name."

He tries once more. "My family called me Rumple."

"Is that what I should call you?"

His hopes sink to his shoes. "Yes."

She smiles. At least she's not wrinkling her nose at his name; he supposes he should be grateful for small favors. "I'll be glad to. And thank you, Rumple."

He realizes instantly he was wrong. It hurts to hear her use his name but not recognize him. "Let's watch _Peter_ _Pan_," he suggests, worn out by words.

She turns on the television. Tonight they refrain from commenting on the performance. Although there's a yard of space between them, he feels her warmth, listens to her breathe. It helps him to remember that, despite the bitter pill of disappointment he's had to swallow, she's here, alive, safe, and soon she'll return to him; and a baby is coming; and Bae is out there somewhere, waiting to be found. Gold will pull himself back together, go back to work on revealing the dragon-fighter in the swan, but not tonight.

He's not aware how it happened, but when the ballet concludes and he reaches for the remote, he becomes aware that he's been holding Belle's hand—_Belinda_, Belinda's hand.

* * *

The hurt doesn't go away, but he picks himself up and resumes his work. The next few days are critical: Emma is on the verge. She tried to snatch Henry and escape from town last night. That's a good thing, actually: she's desperate.

He goes to the shop every day, as if the world just beyond his door isn't about turn inside out. He repairs, he tinkers, he polishes, he plays dominoes, he eats Belinda's worldwide cuisine, he sits on the couch with her on Mondays and Wednesdays, just as normal, allowing Josiah and Belinda a few more days of feeling secure. He never again holds Belinda's hand, and she says nothing more about the forty-nine kisses she owes him.

She does, however, mention the bedroom he's remodeling. He divides his free hours these days between his basement and that bedroom. "You're painting it yellow," she remarks one day.

"You don't like it?" he asks.

"Well, it's not for me to say. I mean, this is your house—" She shifts from foot to foot. Her ankles are still bothering her, and her back is beginning to ache when she's on her feet for long. She needs to learn a new way to stand, to distribute the added weight.

"I'd like to hear your opinion. You. . . " he almost says _matter to me_. He settles on "have good taste."

"Well, before, the rooms were all color-coordinated."

He smiles slyly. "Perhaps I'll just repaint the others, then, to match."

A week later, the painting's done and he's got a parade of cutout ducks glued to the baseboards. He hasn't built the crib yet, but he's affixed a Winnie the Pooh cover to the light switch and he's placed a restored antique rocking chair in a corner. When he arrives home that Monday, Belinda looks up from the mushroom risotto she's preparing. She isn't humming and she doesn't smile. "Mr. Gold." The way she says it, she's intentionally creating distance between them. "What are you doing in the yellow room?"

He doesn't insult her by pretending he doesn't understand the question. "It's going to be a nursery."

She turns to face him directly. "Why?"

_For Adelena, of course. For our baby_, he wants to answer. "After the baby is born, when you're ready to come back to work. . . so you can bring her with you."

"Oh." Her face relaxes and she returns to her cooking.

"I can always redo it, if she doesn't like yellow. Or ducks." He reaches into the refrigerator for the pitcher of tea.

"That's awfully generous. An entire room, just so I can bring the baby along."

He shrugs. "The room was unused and I was. . . looking for a project to keep me busy." He pours two glasses of tea, doctoring hers with a teaspoon of sugar. "Did I do something wrong? Are we back to 'Mr. Gold' and 'Ms. Dove' again?"

She smiles in relief, accepting the glass. "No, of course not. I was just in a mood. I don't know what I thought."

After sipping his tea, he ventures, "Belinda, I suppose you heard about the contract I had with Ms. Boyd."

"I heard, but—I don't pay much attention to gossip."

"A wise choice. I've heard some of the ensuing gossip about that incident. . . speculation about what I intended to do with the baby. The most prevalent of the rumors seem to be that I intended to sell it on the black market or use it in a satanic ritual."

She snorts. "Jackasses."

"Thank you for that." He seats himself at the kitchen table and loosens his tie. He feels very tired: three centuries of horrid rumors add a heavy burden as well as a lot of weight to a deal maker. Even if he did start some of those rumors himself, in the early days. "Contrary to public perception, I do respect families and have no wish to break them up."

Belinda raises her chin. "I know that. I've seen what kind of man you are, M—Rumple."

"I'd like to tell you how the situation with Ms. Boyd came about and what the outcome would have been, if the contract had been fulfilled." His mouth twitches into a wry smile. "If you promise not to let the story get around town. You see, in business, I've found Machiavelli was right: it's 'much safer to be feared than loved.' People 'will offer you their blood, their property, their life and their offspring when your need for them is remote. But when your needs are pressing, they turn away.'"

She dishes up the risotto and sets the platter onto the kitchen table. "Lao Tzu said, 'Fail to honor people and they fail to honor you.'"

Gold chuckles. "Rumplestiltskin Gold says, 'Fail to honor your contract and I'll see you in court.'"

Belinda sets out a platter of green beans almondine and a bowl of fresh pears, then seats herself. She fills her plate, but leans forward on her elbows. "I would like to hear how it really happened, the contract with Ashley."

"To understand what led to her situation, you first must know about her upbringing. You see, her own mother died when Ashley was small, and her father married a widow with two daughters." He interrupts himself to point a fork at her plate. "Dig in. It's very good."

She spreads her napkin across her lap and forks up a mouthful of green beans.

He continues with the tale, though he has to tell it a bit slant. If he told her about the fairy godmother and the glass slippers, she'd think he was nuts.

"And the family the baby would have gone to?"

He leans forward. "Now, you may not believe me, but there was no family."

She cocks her head. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I did have a list, provided by a colleague in Augusta, and Ashley had selected three couples that she wanted to interview, but it never went that far. Ashley would always find an excuse."

"She didn't really want to go through with it," Belinda surmises. Again she's distracted from her meal, and again he has to nudge her to remind her to eat.

"Nor did Sean. At least, that's what I suspected. The times I went to talk to him, his father was always there, and it was Mitchell who did all the talking. Sean just stared at the floor."

With a large grin, she sits back in her chair. She thinks she has the story-and him-all figured out now. "The adoption was a fake all along."

He shrugs, popping a green bean into his mouth. "You could say that." But not for the reason she's thinking: the adoption was a creation of the curse.

"You knew Sean and Ashley really wanted to be together, but the only way to get him to work up the nerve to stand up to his father was to make him see what he stood to lose."

"You're giving me credit for foresight that I'm sorry to say, this world hasn't bestowed upon me. Actually, I thought, once they were faced with the finality of it, Mitchell would back down. I think it's harder for someone who's been a father to let a child go." What he's told her is the truth, but not all of it: his motivation for dealing with Cinderella has always been, from the very start, to buy, not a baby, but a favor from the savior.

"Still, you never intended to go through with the adoption."

"Oh, I was ready to. One way or another, that baby needed a good home."

"I heard you demanded Emma to promise you a favor before you tore up the contract."

"Contracts are far more than a few sheets of paper. They are symbols of integrity. And what was that you quoted to me just now? 'Fail to honor people'? Living up to one's contractual promises is an act of honor."

"Well, I'm sure you won't have any problems there. Emma's a woman of her word."

"Yes. I believe you're right."

"But the favor. You wouldn't make her. . . like, evict the nuns or something like that?"

"If the nuns break their lease, I would expect the sheriff to assist me in her official capacity, if I needed her to." He smiles. "But you and your friends made certain that would never happen." She blushes and he longs to clasp her face in his hands to kiss her reddened cheeks. "Belinda, if it will set your mind at ease a little, I'll tell you what I intend to ask for my favor. But I'll also ask you not to tell anyone, other than your husband, of course."

"On my honor." She lays her hand against her heart.

"Ms. Swan is a skilled locator of people, and when the time is right, I will ask her to find someone for me."

"Why all the subterfuge? Why not just hire her?"

"'Friendships purchased with money and not by greatness and nobility of spirit are paid for, but not collected.' And it's very important to me that I collect on this particular contract." He pokes at his risotto. "It means the world to me."

"Your son?" she asks gently.

He stands, laying his napkin on the table. "I have some things to do in the basement. Thank you for dinner." His throat tight, he starts to walk away. He needs to spin a while, to get away from the voices: "Papa! You coward!" "I command thee, Dark One!" "You could have fought, Rumple. You could have died." "A child can't have a child." He wonders whether, when he finds Bae, if Bae forgives him, the voices will stop.

"Rumple?" When he pauses, she continues, "Thank you for the nursery."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

As soon as he opens the front door to his house (_their_ home), he can hear Belle humming. He clings to the happiness in her voice like a drowning man clings to a life preserver.

Belle is stirring something in a pot on the stove. Her back is to him as he enters the kitchen (_their_ kitchen). She smiles over her shoulder. "So you're repainting one of the upstairs bathrooms, too." She neglects to mention that it's the bathroom adjacent the nursery.

He shrugs. "I was on a roll."

"Robin's egg blue. I like it."

He knows; it's the color of the first gift he ever gave her, a dress he'd bought for her in Glowshire. As he paints he smiles, remembering the difficulties he had describing Belle's size to the seamstress; after all, he had no idea how much of what he saw when he stared at her was Belle and how much was clothing: skirts and petticoats and corsets and whatnot. He'd finally decided he'd cheat: he chose the dress that he liked best, one whose color matched her eyes, and once he got it outside he enchanted it so that it would adjust itself to the wearer. After that hassle, he'd summoned the seamstress to the Dark Castle and let her and Belle work out the rest of the new wardrobe.

He can't wait for the day she remembers that story.

"I'm glad."

She turns back to the stove. "Did you hear? Kathryn's decided to continue with her plans for law school. After all she's been through, I really admire her."

"Forgiveness requires strength, but she's a strong person." He glances at her hopefully. "As are you."

"Thanks, but I don't think I've ever had much cause to be. Other than difficulties with my dad, life's gone easy on me so far." She spoons up a sample of her current experiment, turns and invites him to taste; she lifts the spoon to his mouth. "My first attempt at homemade spaghetti sauce," she announces. "Too spicy?" She's looking intently at his mouth as he licks the flavor from his lips.

"A dash more basil," he advises, reaching past her to the spice rack. Instinctively, he sets a hand lightly on her back as he leans past her.

She suddenly gasps.

"What's wrong?"

Her eyes widen. She grasps his wrist, presses his hand against her belly. He feels a flutter, gentle as a butterfly wing against his palm. "Feel that?"

"Oh yeah," he breathes. This, too, he'd missed with Milah, though he's not so sure she would have shared such moments with him. It suddenly occurs to him that he never once asked Milah whether she was happy when she discovered she was pregnant. He'd just assumed. . . .

But it's here now, this chance to share in the mystery of the formation of a life. He looks into Belinda's eyes and imagines he finds Belle there, Belle, who would have declared this pregnancy the greatest adventure of all, and who would have welcomed him along for every moment of the journey–he, her husband. Gold's heart sinks to his shoes. He has no right, legal or moral, to this moment. Just an emotional right that only he knows about.

But Belinda keeps pressing his palm to her belly. "I felt something this morning, but it was so faint, I wasn't sure. But that, that was definitely a kick, wasn't it?"

"A kick Beckham would envy," he declares. He lingers, taking this moment that somewhere, deep inside Belinda, Belle is offering him. But it's a moment they're stealing from Josiah and Belinda.

Late that night, long after the spaghetti and the ballet, he sits in his basement, thinking. He's hoping Emma will break the curse before the baby is born, because there's no way the hospital or the Doves will allow him to be present for the delivery. Then again, no matter when the curse breaks, this baby is still Josiah's. For once, Rumplestiltskin draws a blank. He has no idea how to make this work. He only knows the three of them have to.

* * *

It's Belle's strength, so much greater than the power of the curse, that he's thinking of when August Wayne Booth has the nerve to call him to ask for help in making a believer of Emma. That wasn't Belinda reaching out to him to experience the baby's kick, he's certain of it: it was the stubborn, strong Belle. When the curse is lifted, he will thank her, and continue to thank her every day for the rest of their lives.

Leaning on her strength, he agrees to help Booth. No, he hasn't forgiven the fraud, has no intention to; he's a villain, so nobility is not required of him, and he freely tosses sharp barbs when Booth comes around. But Belle, Adelena, Bae and Dove, and most of all, Rumplestiltskin himself, need for the savior to emerge, so he allies himself with the man who lied to him.

Refusing the young mother's plea to help her gain custody of Henry is one of the hardest things he's ever done. His heart bleeds, not just for her, but for himself, because when Adelena is born, he'll be in Emma's boots. As Emma storms out of his shop, he vows that he, Dove and Belle will respect each other, will work to preserve the baby's ties to each of them. Will be deserving of Adelena's pride.

"I was the same age you are now when my son was born. Believe me, I know exactly what you're feeling," he says to Emma, after she's long gone and he can safely speak. "And believe me, no matter how old you get, or how far away your child goes, that feeling will never change."

* * *

Booth is failing miserably in his efforts to convert Emma, and just as desperate, Regina has attempted to lure David into an affair and away from Mary Margaret. It's hard to be patient with all these people, but, unknown to the rest of the world, patience is Rumplestiltskin's greatest strength, a patience made concrete by his bottomless love for Bae and a bracing of stubborn hope.

And the Knowledge. In the old world, he had glimpses of the future: a mother's kiss that will awaken a child from a sleeping curse and awaken a town from the lies it's been living under. His own hand, glowing with magic. An airplane, with the savior seated beside him.

As he paints Adelena's bathroom, he imagines—because he no longer can See, he can only guess—her future. He can't picture her in the Enchanted Forest; she seems a child of this world. Probably, she will have her mother's chestnut hair and her father's rectangular face. But she will inherit qualities from her stepfather as well, and that causes Gold concern.

A great deal of concern.

* * *

"Adelena's been especially fractious today," Belinda comments as she sets the table. She straightens, rubbing her lower back and groaning.

Gold comes up behind her and grips her shoulders, pulling them back. "Stand straight. I know when you're hurting it's tempting to bend in, but if you'll make yourself stand up straight, keep your shoulders back, and when you sit, put a pillow behind you, you'll hurt less." He reaches around her to set a hand against her belly. "Your center of gravity's changed, so your posture needs to change too."

She leans back against his chest, resting her head against his shoulder and closing her eyes. He can feel the baby stir beneath his palm and tightens his arm just a little, bringing himself closer, taking more of her weight onto himself. He has to lean into his cane more to compensate, but he doesn't mind. He would stand like this for hours, their bodies pressed together, her hair tickling his nose, her warmth surrounding and comforting him. Emotions compete for supremacy in him: desire, protectiveness, pride in a child that isn't his, the need to be needed.

They were wrong, back in the Enchanted Forest: there is magic in this land. It flows through every living thing. It's here, beneath the palm of his hand and resting against his shoulder. "Belle," he says, with just enough breath to ruffle her hair, but not enough voice for her to hear him. He lowers his face to her hair to kiss the top of her head.

"You must've gone through this with your wife."

The words break his enchantment. He releases her, hobbles–for his ankle suddenly aches–over to the kitchen table, distributes the silverware to occupy his hands. "Ex-wife. No. I wasn't there during her pregnancy."

"Where were you?"

He can't meet her gaze; he's embarrassed, for surely she knew how close he'd come to kissing her, and that's why she chose this topic. She knows, he's sure, that he doesn't talk about his former wife. "There was a war. I was drafted."

"So you missed the pregnancy, the birth?"

He smiles ruefully. "And the marriage. It seems I was absent from that too." She makes a sad sound, but before she can say anything, he changes the subject. "So what's for dinner? It smells wonderful."

"Lemongrass coconut chicken." But she doesn't move to the stove; she just watches him with disappointment and puzzled longing. Despite her maternity top and jeans and the dash of lipstick and mascara she wears, she's so Belle standing there with her hands folded over her belly, where his hand had rested a moment ago. He can't help but speak her true name. "Belle?"

She finally moves to the stove. "Dinner will be ready in ten. There's time if you'd like to wash up first." As he starts for the stairs, she glances over her shoulder. "Funny, most people would shorten my name to Lin or Lindy; Jo calls me Bindy. You're the only one who's ever called me Belle."

"Is it all right?" He studies her.

"I rather like it." But in her smile there's no sign of recognition.

* * *

Regina storms into his shop, ablaze with anger, frustration and–she thinks she's hiding it, but she's wearing it like a stale cologne: panic. She announces that her apple tree is dying. Gold smiles and makes a dry joke. It won't be long now; even Regina admits it: "The curse is weakening."

He looks hard into her eyes. "Hallelujah."

"You have to help me. You're in this just as deep as I am. You created it."

"Yes, and I told you then that someday, the child of Snow White would break it. It seems, Madame Mayor, that you still have a bit of a hearing problem."

"We've been in this together, from the beginning."

He throws her the only bone left, though he knows she won't bite. "Perhaps you giving up Henry is just the price you have to pay to keep the curse unbroken." He's telling her the truth: she must choose between Henry or revenge, love or hate. But the only reason he tells her the truth now is so that later, when she's kneeling in the rubble of her broken plans, when she's lost both revenge and love, she'll remember he gave her a way to save one or the other, and she in her greed refused to let go of either. And he, who will have his family and Regina's envy, will walk away with both love and revenge.

Still, the queen refuses to cut her losses. She wants magic to fix her problems, so like thousands before her, she calls for a deal–ignoring the fact, though he reminds her of it, that there's (almost) no magic in this world. (He's still telling the truth: he just neglects to mention that he has a method to summon magic here.) She offers anything–how many times has he heard that before? He turns his back on her, offering only one piece of advice: leave town before the awakened mob catches up to you.

Stunned, she walks out.

He might feel sorry for her, except he gave her a way out and she wouldn't take it. He might worry for the welfare of his former student, but then he thinks of Belle, Josiah and Adelena and he's mad as hell.

Until, in moving away from her, he finds himself standing before a globe on his counter and he realizes this world awaits him. It's just days away now: the breaking of the curse, the summons of magic, the reclamation of his beloved, the discovery of his son, the birth of his stepdaughter.

No, the best revenge won't be Regina's loss of everything. The best revenge will be in knowing that the last, most important lesson he offered her, she refused to learn: that if they let go of the anger, love is possible even for the likes of them.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

It's Tuesday, so it surprises him to hear humming in his kitchen when he opens the front door. "Winter Dreams" is playing on the stereo.

Waving hello with a spatula, she greets him from the doorway leading from the kitchen to the dining room. She's wearing the basketball shoes he gave her yesterday, and she wiggles one foot at him to show them off. "They're working. My ankles don't ache."

"They should provide good arch support too." He has an excuse now to sneak in an admiring glance at her calves, bare beneath her denim skirt. "But, uhm, did I get my days mixed up? Isn't today Tuesday?"

"It is, but–did Jo remember to ask you about tomorrow?" She comes forward to help him take off his jacket, always a bit of a trial with the cane. A small shudder runs up his spine as her knuckles brush against his cheek. He bites his tongue: a little blast of pain is the only way he can keep from grasping her hand to press it to his lips.

"He did, and congratulations. I'm sure you'll have a lovely time." It's their wedding anniversary tomorrow, Josiah announced this morning, though he couldn't exactly remember how many years they'd been married, and he'd asked for the day off for both of them.

"Thanks," Belinda beams. "We're going out to dinner, then a movie. Anyway, I didn't want you to go hungry tomorrow, so here I am."

Once the jacket's removed, her hands rest on his shoulders, then one of them plucks at his hair at the crown of his head. She clicks her tongue. "Did you go out like this, this morning? And Jo didn't say anything to you? That man of mine–I swear, a person could stand buck naked in front of him and he'd never notice."

Gold clutches at that accusation. Is it possible Belinda and Josiah's love life is lacking? "What's wrong?" He's really wanting to ask, _What's_ _wrong_ _in_ _your_ _relationship_? Oh, but they're going out for a romantic night tomorrow; surely that means they're happy. And he wouldn't want them to be_ un_happy. . . .

But when she takes his hand and pulls him into the downstairs bathroom, he has to admit he's not that magnanimous. She sits him down on the rim of the tub and his hands start for her waist with the intention of drawing her forward . . .she moves between his knees, standing over him, bending, her fingers in his hair. She removes his tie.

"Belle," he chokes.

"Take off your shirt."

"Wh-what did you say?"

She clicks her tongue and starts opening the buttons of his silk Armani. "Take off your shirt. So it won't get wet."

"Wet?" he echoes dumbly, but he obeys her, sliding the open shirt from his shoulders.

But his hopes are dashed when she walks out of the bathroom. "I'll be right back. Stay put! I'm going to scrub that blob of paint out."

He sighs deeply, uncertain whether he's relieved or disappointed. As he waits, he looks around: the bathroom's nice enough, as bathrooms go, but hardly the location he's imagined for their first time. He props his bad ankle onto the lid of the commode and waits.

When she returns there's a towel slung over her shoulder, her sleeves are rolled up and she's carrying a bottle of olive oil–extra virgin, he notices. "Up." She tugs at his elbow until he stands, then she turns the water on in the sink, flits her fingers under it to test the temperature, then demands, "Bend over." His head under the stream of water, she begins to dig her fingers into his hair.

Suddenly Gold discovers an erogenous zone he never knew he had. A low moan escapes him as her fingers massage his scalp. Every ounce of tension washes down the drain as she works the olive oil into his hair, rinses, works in some more, rinses. . . shampoo and rinsing and conditioner and rinsing and he's adrift, steered by her knowing fingers, better than ice cream this is, better than. . . well, it's been two hundred years since he'd taken a woman to bed, and though Cora was uninhibited enough, there was always something calculating about the way she responded to his touch. Something fake. Between Milah, who was never satisfied, and Cora, for whom sex was mechanical, and a few princesses and duchesses who bargained away access to their bodies, he'd concluded coupling was overrated.

As Belinda sits him down, bends over him so close he can see her chest rise and fall with each breath, Rumplestiltskin realizes that though he's taken women to bed, he's never made love before.

Belinda dries his hair with the towel, then blots up the rivulets of water from his shoulders and chest. "I got most of it out. A couple more washings should do."

She brushes his hair as he rests his forehead against her belly. "I hear the baby." His heart aches.

"She's been rambunctious today." She steps away from him, hangs the towel on the rack, and he feels suddenly cold. "I'd better get back to my cooking. Beef Wellington and brussel sprouts tonight, and there's a lamb curry in the fridge for tomorrow." He follows her into the kitchen and she continues, "I don't know what's on TV tonight that we might like. Jo always watches _NCIS_, so Tuesdays are my reading nights."

His beams back at her. She's staying! Normally he'd be working in the basement or the nursery, so he doesn't know what fare television has to offer tonight, but he won't risk scaring her off with the unknown. "I have a new box set I haven't opened yet: the Royal Shakespeare Company's performances of the comedies. You know, _Much Ado about Nothing, Midsummer_ _Night's_ _Dream_–"

She claps her hands. "That sounds perfect with the beef Wellington!" She opens the oven and wonderful aromas spill out. "You've heard of 'bucket lists'? Well, one of the items on mine is to see the RSC perform in the Globe in London."

He almost blurts, _I'll_ _take_ _you_ _there_, but he settles for, "I'm sure you will someday." He sits down at the kitchen table, forcing himself to remember to be grateful for the moment he has in front of him, rather than waste it by daydreaming about the future. She isn't Belle yet, she isn't his yet, but he has the gift of an evening in the company of someone he cares for, and that's more than most of Storybrooke has tonight.

* * *

Alone in his shop, Gold watches the happy couple stroll past his window and enter Dave's Fish & Chips. Jealousy guts Gold like a fish: If she were his, he'd take her to La Tandoor, where he has a private table and a personal wine supply. She's peering up at Dove, and Dove's grinning down at her, and the swelling of her belly announces to all of Storybrooke that this is a family.

Gold wonders how else they will celebrate tonight, when they've gone home and turned the lights out. His gut twists as he imagines Belle naked beneath the sheets, reaching for the man she calls husband, her lips swollen from his kisses. He curses himself: at three hundred sixty-something years of age, he should have conquered his petty jealousies long ago. Besides, the curse breaking is only a week or two away. He retreats to his workroom and begins to build a cradle.

In reality, this is an important anniversary for Josiah, just not the one the curse has fooled him into thinking it is. It was thirty years ago today that Rumplestiltskin granted Courage a wish, in gratitude for the dove's loyal service in delivering messages (actually, in gratitude for the dove's friendship, but the imp will never admit that. Wouldn't do for word to leak out that the Dark One cared). Quite an impressive feat of magic it was too, and no one but Dove ever knew, more's the pity. It had taken hours of concentration and quite drained Rumple: for a full day after, he couldn't summon enough magic to even light a candle. But the result was worth the price, for he'd transformed the dove into a man, a tall, strong, young man. The only part Rumple got wrong was the hair: he forgot to conjure any. Never mind, Dove had said, admiring his reflection in Rumple's fish pond. He ran his brand-new, big, powerful hand over his smooth head.

The imp led the new man into the castle. "What shall you do in this new form? All men need occupation–except for aristocrats." Rumple flourished his hands. "Tinker, carpenter, baker, smithy. There are a thousand choices."

"Can't I continue to work for you?"

Rumple opened and closed his mouth, lost for words. Josiah held the heavy wooden door open, allowing the wizard to pass through first. As their footfalls echoed through the Great Hall, Rumple noticed how empty the castle seems these days, though it's never been more possessed of things.

"As it happens, I'm soon to take a trip and I shall need someone to maintain the castle. Would you be interested in the job?"

"Of course. When will you return, sir?"

"I shant," Rumple muttered. He changed the subject before Josiah could ask for an explanation. "You need a new name, a human name." As they walked to the kitchen–for the new man was suddenly very hungry–Rumple rattled off a list of names. He had quite a collection of them from around the world: learning names and their translations had been a bit of a hobby. The man kept shaking his head, until Rumple suggested, "Josiah. In its land of origin, it means 'healed.'"

"That one. Because you made me well when I was sick."

"Very well, then, Josiah. Let's see what we can find for your first meal as a man. For I'm afraid I can't conjure anything more at the moment." They managed to turn up some dried fruit and a cheese wheel, and considered themselves fortunate, for the kitchen hadn't been used since Belle left.

Two days later, the imp answered a summons from Princess Ella.

Regina hadn't bothered to change Josiah's name or his occupation. Gold wonders why. He won't ask though: he's learned to take advantage of her laziness.

He wonders if, when he takes Belle into the world to find Bae, Josiah will prefer to stay behind again, minding the castle. Or will he agree to follow, so that he can remain close to his daughter?

If this doesn't work out, if Belle or Adelena or Josiah suffers because of the queen's little joke, Gold decides he will introduce Regina to the handle of his cane.

* * *

He finds Belle kneeling in his dining room, the glass doors of his china cabinet propped open before her. She's facing the cabinet, so her back is turned to him. But it's Thursday, one day after her wedding anniversary: she shouldn't be here for another four days.

He hesitates in the entranceway. He feels as though he's intruding upon a private moment–she's so still–and he considers walking back out, leaving her alone with her thoughts, but he's worried. "Belinda?"

She doesn't respond, so he takes a few steps toward her. Her head is bowed as if in prayer.

"Belinda? Are you okay?"

At last she looks up at him, her face pale, her eyes shadowed. Her hands are clasped around something in her lap. Now he's really worried and he hurries to her side. He wishes to sink to his knees beside her, encircle her in his arms, but his bad ankle won't allow him to kneel; he has to settle for bending. He reaches a hand toward her and when she doesn't flinch, he grips her shoulder. "Belle?"

"I had a dream last night." She lifts her hands so he can see what she's holding. "This was important, wasn't it? To us."

She suddenly presses it into his hand, clambers to her feet. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be here." And before he can argue, she's gone.

"Belle, wait." But she doesn't. Carefully he sets the object back onto the shelf. "Yes," he answers to the air. "It isn't just a cup." And he closes the glass doors.

* * *

Rumor has it Emma's giving up. She's packing up to leave town–to leave Henry. Anyone else would be worried, but not Gold–because he knows Regina. Emma's leaving isn't enough for her, any more than forcing Emma's mother into exile to live as a bandit was enough. True to form, Her Majesty storms back into Gold's shop (won't she ever learn to keep her mouth shut? Isn't it obvious to her by now that it's foolish to tell her secrets to the man who wants her curse broken?). "I found a solution to my Emma Swan problem," she gloats. She claims she managed to bring a small amount of magic to Storybrooke; she plans to twist it into a purpose other than the one that fits its nature.

He's annoyed by that: he spent many, many hours in the Enchanted Forest teaching her the science of magic. She should know better on all accounts. Magic that's been moved between realms is unstable; magic that has been brought to a land in which it doesn't belong is unpredictable. He plans to spend weeks, months if necessary, studying the magic he summons to this world before he attempts anything major with it. And magic that has been wrung from other magic—at best, it's like dubbing from one videotape to another: strength is lost, quality reduced. At worst—well, he once saw the result when a sorcerer drained an enchanted medallion of its magic and tried to use that magic to transport his apprentice across kingdoms. An ogre would look like a beauty pageant queen by comparison with the thing the apprentice became.

But Regina's always been too powerful for her own good; she's managed to pull off in minutes stunts that it took Rumplestiltskin days of experimentation to perform. Much of her success can be credited to her teacher, of course, but a great deal of it is due to her decision early on to specialize. Certain functions and methods, she's never bothered to learn, and her motto, when it came to the laws of magic, has always been "_I'm_ the law."

"The curse is going to be stronger than ever. Don't you understand? I won."

His mild response infuriates her. Later, when she reflects upon his lack of reaction, she'll realize it should have clued her in to the fact that he knows there's nothing she can do to salvage her curse, because there's nothing she can do to break the bonds Emma has formed here. The sheriff's abandonment of Storybrooke will be short-lived: she loves too many too well, and she'll fight for them. As an ambulance siren slices through the peaceful afternoon, a savior is born.

Rumplestiltskin sets Charming's sword onto the top of the counter and flips his sign to "open."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

He makes a cup of chamomile and forces himself to pick up his pen to write the steps out. He can't begin to count the number of times he's done this since the night he screamed at the Reul Ghorm and dragged from her the single word that thereafter controlled his thoughts, his actions and his dreams: curse. How perverse that his only source of hope was a curse, but, he supposes, anything to do with the Dark One must be perverse.

So as he waits behind his counter, his hand trembling, he writes out the steps for the thousandth time. There's no need, of course; every breath he's taken in three centuries has carved the steps into his bones. But he can't afford for nervousness to lead to haste; he must trust the plan to which he's sworn a blood oath of allegiance. It will work. He's Seen enough of the pieces of the future to have faith in the plan: the mother's kiss, the airplane, the return of his magic. Tonight a woman in red leather will slay a dragon with her father's sword, the True Love bottled for a rainy day will be freed, a town will awaken, Belle will love him again and Rumplestiltskin–and who knows who else, for this has never ever been done before–will inhale magic, exhale power.

But for now he drinks tea, writes out the steps and tries not to tremble as three hundred years' labor comes to fruition in one night.

He dreamt of her last night. Not Belinda but Belle, and not in their friendly kitchen but in the Great Hall. She stood over him, he shrinking in his oversized chair and trying to placate her with a weak smile. But she crossed her arms and smirked his trademark smirk, and speaking in a perfect imitation of his imp voice, she pronounced him a liar. "'I will love nothing else.' But you broke that vow too, didn't you?" Then she unfolded her arms and smiled her Belle smile. "And I'm glad, because I love you, too. And Bae will be glad. Loving me doesn't make you disloyal to Bae. It makes your love for him more powerful."

He blinks the dream memory away and focuses on his list. His pen, which apparently has a will of its own, has written, "7. Drop vial into waters of Lake Nostros. 8. Use power of love to locate Bae."

He scratches out "love" and writes in "magic," as Step 8 is supposed to read. He finishes the list quickly, sips tea and tries to focus. The process, the process, it will work, one step at a–

Except for the first time ever, he's thinking about reordering the steps. If Emma breaks the curse before Rumple's finished bringing magic to the world, Belle and Dove are going to have a hell of a lot of convoluted emotions and thoughts to deal with all at once, and no one to navigate them through it. They're strong, they will recover, but there's a little one who's not so strong who must be protected against the violence of the stress that her mother will experience as her psyche splits in two.

_My fault_, Gold's pen writes. _I am her father_.

The lawyer in him goes all legalistic for a moment: _Stepfather_ _is_ _all_ _you_ _can_ _ever_ _be_ _to_ _that_ _child_, _and_ _you're_ _not_ _even_ _that_ _yet_. _You_ _have_ _no_ _rights_ _or_ _responsibilities_ _to_ _her_.

The man in him answers: _Bullshit_.

If there is any sliver of stubbornness remaining in him, pushing him to stick to the plan, it's obliterated when his service bell tinkles and the Evil Queen and the savior storm through his door, for the moment, warriors united; for the moment, no longer playing their prescribed roles but rather acting from the deepest part of the heart. Parents who will do anything to save their child.

Damn it, isn't that what brought him to this place, too? As the warrior-mothers storm his glass barricade, his left hand trembles and his right draws a slash across the list. "Gold, you have to help us," the savior is saying as Rumple writes across the slash one word representing the step that will come next in his plan: ADELENA.

"I'll tell you how to save your boy." His mouth has gone dry: the truth drags across his tongue, but at least it comes. "If you will help me save mine."

Regina has already begun formulating her arguments and accusations and they spill from her like black ink spilled across a pristine page, but Emma is listening. Emma flattens her hands on the counter (one hand on either side of the case holding her father's sword, as she will soon be startled to learn) and leans in. Fury flames in her eyes, her thought obvious: are you so low as to put a price on a child's life? But then something in his tone or his eyes connects with her, desperate parent to desperate parent, and for a moment she's gobsmacked, but she leans on the fortitude that this world has forced her to develop, and she extends her open hand. "Deal."

He shakes her hand. For the moment, the case holding her father's sword will remain closed. "This is how you will break both curses." His glance flickers to Regina, but a small nod from her assures him she is still more mother than queen. There is shame in the slump of her shoulders, but no regret, and he gives her a small nod back. "For the sake of our children."

"For Henry," Regina agrees, then makes a space in this new vow for her former master to add a name. "And for. . . ."

"For Baelfire. And for Adelena."

The women exchange a surprised glance. Emma then peers at Gold. "Two–?" She gives her head a shake to remind herself to focus on the urgent task at hand. "We'll swap baby photos later. How do we wake Henry?"

He gives her a small smile of pride. Someday he'll tell her how much like her father she is in her singlemindedness. Someday he may even tell her son a few stories about a matchmaking imp without whom there might have been no Emma and Henry. But she's right; it's time now to get to business.

And then from the corner of his eye he catches a movement from Regina. The queen takes a step back, lowering her widened eyes to her hands, which she abruptly rubs together. He knows this gesture: he saw it several times during the early months of her training, when she'd done something cruel, something she regretted. Her Lady Macbeth gesture.

"Regina?" he prompts.

His voice compels her to look up at him. "I'm sorry," she says, but before she can explain why, the queen in her emerges. "Proceed, Mr. Gold. How do we break the curse?"

He frowns a little; she's up to something, but she'll tell him about it eventually. She always does. He gives his attention back to Emma. This is not how it's supposed to go; there's no step in his three-hundred-year-old plan that says, "Be open and honest with the savior." So he hesitates, until in the back of his mind he hears her father's voice: "I have done all that you have asked of me" and he realizes that Emma will, too.

The last person he trusted, as he is now trusting Emma, was the caretaker of his estate.

Rumplestiltskin clasps Emma's hand, sharing the strength of his experience, sharing the strength of her innocence. "No greater power exists, Ms. Swan, than True Love. With it your father and mother have defeated every spell that has been thrown at them. With it you will break the strongest curse that has ever been created. Go to your son and wake him–"

Emma's read the Snow White story. She finishes the sentence: "With a kiss."

* * *

His Caddy is right behind Regina's Mercedes as it runs a red light and speeds through the school zone. He follows suit: if the mayor and the sheriff don't have to follow traffic laws, why should an ordinary citizen? But at Blackbird Lane they part company, the Mercedes making a left toward the hospital; Gold proceeds straight ahead on Moncton until he's at the edge of town, and then he takes an unnamed asphalt road south, past some empty fields, until he comes upon a ranch house that sits alone on a hill. The garage door is up: Dove's Yukon sits inside, beside Belinda's Honda. From a tool shed in the backyard Gold hears hammering; at the house, the outer door is open, and through the closed screen door he hears Tchaikovsky's "Winter Dreams."

Hovering above the steel mailbox that sits on a post at the end of the driveway is a white wooden dove on the wing; on the box itself is painted in bright blue "The Doves."

He suddenly realizes he has no idea what to tell them. This spontaneity isn't like him: when it comes to preparedness, the Boy Scouts have nothing on Rumplestiltskin. He stands on their porch, staring at the "Welcome" mat and searching for an opening line, an excuse for coming here, where he's never been.

The floorboards squeak. He looks up to her puzzled half-smile. They just stand there, staring through the mesh, until something shifts in her gaze: he thinks it's a_ knowing_ that has arisen in her eyes, and he could swear it's Rumplestiltskin the Sorcerer she's seeing, not Gold, and his body straightens and his cane clatters to the porch. He doesn't seem to need it any more.

She flings the screen door out of her way and flies into his arms. Her hands press against his shoulder blades, pushing him tight against her; her face presses against his jacket and he suddenly resents Armani and all the other designers of men's business fashions, because he can't feel her through three layers of cloth. Nor, with her face tucked into his shoulder, can he see her expression. He's half-crazy to know if she remembers, but he won't scare her by asking. With one arm around her waist and one hand stroking her hair, he leaves it to his touch to say what he can't conjure words for. She's breathing heavily, her body rising and falling beneath his hand.

They clutch each other, deaf to the hammering in the tool shed, deaf to the frantic distant barking of a dog, deaf to the flurry of beating wings as a flock of robins streaks across the sky. He can hear nothing of the commotion around him, but he can hear her breathe.

And then everything stops.

She raises her face as a rainbow passes over it, bars of yellow and orange and violet and green light, and he cups her face, and his thumb tingles where he touches her cheek. His entire hand tingles, his body and her body begin to shudder, the floorboards beneath his Italian shoes shake, and she pulls away, though she takes both his hands in hers. "Rumple, what's happening? Rumple?"

He searches her face. "Belle, do you know me? Do you remember me?"

The rainbow fades, the floorboards and their bodies steady, and after some hesitation the gentle spring breeze resumes and the robins settle in trees, singing about the strange storm they've just experienced.

"Of course I—" She suddenly drops her face into her hands. "My head hurts. Gods, I—" Her eyes search the environment frantically and she hisses at him. "Shh! Do you hear them? They're coming."

"Who, sweetheart? Who's coming?" He slides his hands along her arms comfortingly.

"She wants me to tell her your secrets, but I'll never tell," Belle shakes her head wildly. "She wants to bring you to your knees, she says. She won't kill you; you're still useful to her, but she wants you on your knees to her. She threw me against the wall with her magic. She chained me to the wall. No food, no water, she told them, but one of them helped me anyway."

"She? Do you mean Regina?" He touches her cheek but she won't look at him.

"The ogres did this. What's left for us to take back to their families? Arms and legs strewn everywhere. An entire regiment slaughtered in less than two hours."

"Belle, Belle, come back to me," he pleads. "That's the past. Don't stay there."

"He's a very nice man, Daddy. Yes, he works for Gold, but he's a. . ." her voice trails off. She licks her lips uncertainly. "He takes good care of me. Hello, Mayor Mills. Yes, it's a lovely day. Yes, we're very lucky to live here."

He takes her face in his hands and forces her to look at him. "Belle, breathe. Slowly. Focus on your breath. Breathe, sweetheart. For the baby, Belle. Come back to me."

"The baby." She nods and gulps for air.

"The baby." He mimics the breathing pattern he wants her to take. "Breathe. We're here, in Storybrooke. We're safe."

She leans against his shoulder, feeling his chest rise and fall against her head, and gradually she gains control of her breathing. After a long moment she shifts to stand on her own, and then she peers at him.

"Belle, do you remember me?" He chokes on the words.

She searches his eyes. Suddenly her hands sink into his hair, drag his head down, and she presses her mouth against his. She's come back to him; he knows it when she draws back from the kiss.

"This," she murmurs. "This is real."

Their smiles make promises of a future of more. Their smiles make promises of a future together.

"Rumple, I remember," she laughs breathlessly. "You and me and a chipped cup, and a deal we made."

"It's forever, darling," he reminds her, and she rests her hands on his chest. He sets his hands on hers, and as his right hand brushes against the ring finger of her left hand, they stop smiling. They stop smiling but their fingers thread together and they don't let go, and the light in their eyes doesn't extinguish.

"After all we've been through, I won't be separated from you again, not even for a day," Belle insists.

"I won't let go," he assures her, planting kisses on the palms of her hands. "Never again."

"I don't want to hurt him. He's been very good to me."

"He's my friend." There's no way the three—no, the four—of them will get out of this without a hell of a lot of pain.

Gold suddenly needs her closer. With a rumble in his throat, he yanks her back into his embrace and brings his mouth to hers. Just before their lips meet, he moans, "I've missed you so much, Belle. I've needed you, since that day you fell into my arms, and I've loved you, ever since the day you asked to know me."

Words rush out of her. "All this time, I thought I was feeling things I shouldn't, wanting to be with you. I felt so guilty, but I couldn't stop myself; I only felt right when we were together. It was so confusing. When I went home to Jo, I felt like I was cheating on you."

"We'll sort it out, the life you lived here, from the life in the Enchanted Forest. We'll be all right. I'll explain it all." Explain and ask forgiveness, because even after he'd come to know her, even after he'd fallen in love with her the first time, he'd continued to build the curse—though he honestly can't say whether, if he'd known she was alive and in Regina's possession, he would have gone through with it. He's asked himself that question a hundred times, and most of the time, the answer has been an image of himself tearing down the Spiral Palace with his bare hands, and once he'd freed Belle, he'd have set those hands to work on her captor's throat.

Belle stirs in his arms, putting out the fire for revenge and igniting in his belly a fire of a different sort. Screw revenge. He has the savior's promise of help, so soon he will have Bae; and right here, right now and forever, he has Belle. Every cell in his body and hers sings to him that assurance, but Malcolm's castoff and Milah's cuckold and Hordor's bootlicker and the butt of Hook's joke still live in corners of his mind, so he needs to hear Belle say the words aloud. "But Belle—"

She nods furiously. "Yes. Yes, I love you."

He breathes her name in relief. "Belle." He can't wait any longer for another kiss.

"Lady Belle? Master Rumplestiltskin?"

Gold lifts his head toward the voice. "Josiah?" The master sorcerer reddens.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

**A/N. It's time to crank the feels up a notch. This chapter's for you, Grace, because you guessed this plot point ages ago!**

* * *

Josiah is standing on _his_ flower-lined sidewalk that leads up to _his_ home. He's staring, then glaring at _his_ wife and _his_ employer, who've been snuggling and snogging on _his_ porch. He lowers his head into his hands, rubbing at his forehead furiously as though trying to rub out a headache, and he curses. His Belinda releases Gold and starts down the steps, calling to him, "Jo? Are you hurting?" At the foot of the porch stairs, she pauses. "It hurt me too—a blinding pain behind my eyes—but it'll go away. It'll last only a few minutes."

"It's your memory awakening, from a curse that Regina cast," Gold explains. "The curse gave you false memories and now the real ones are returning. Overwhelming and confusing, but it'll settle down. We should go inside and sit down, rest—"

In two bounds Josiah is on the porch and his left hand, as big as Gold's head, is wrapped around his boss' throat. He starts to squeeze and lift as Belinda spins, runs up the steps and grabs his arm, trying to pry his hand away. "What are you doing? What are you doing, Jo?" she cries at the same time Josiah thrusts his face into Gold's and demands to know, "What the hell do you mean by kissing my wife, Gold?"

Gold sputters, gasps for air, unable to breathe, let alone answer. Belinda does the answering for him, but Josiah ignores her. "Look at me, Jo! I'm not your wife! I'm not Belinda. You said it yourself a minute ago: I'm Lady Belle. Remember? Try to remember, Jo. Avonlea. The Second Ogres War. My father, Lord Maurice, sent you with a message strapped to your leg. Our army had fallen. Our lands were under ogre domination. You flew across the Lower Highlands, a hundred miles, across battlefields and burning fields, to carry my papa's plea to Rumplestiltskin."

Josiah's grip loosens but he doesn't release Gold's throat. He's still staring into his boss' eyes, and with every word of Belinda's tale, his expression changes.

"When you reached the Dark Mountains, you flew into a storm, fierce wind and rain," Gold picks up the story. His voice is hoarse. "But you kept going, because Lady Belle needed you to. Because you belonged to her and she loved you. When you reached the Dark Castle, you could find no way in. You were exhausted, half-drowned. You saw a single light burning in a room in the top of the East Tower. With the last of your strength you flew to the window of that room and threw yourself against it."

"To break it." Josiah releases Gold now. His arms dangle uselessly at his sides as his sight draws inside himself. "I couldn't."

"The castle opened the window for you, let you in."

Josiah cocks his head and blinks at Gold. "You picked me up. In your hands. I fit in your hands. How?"

"You were a bird." Gold lets the information sink in. If certain of Josiah's memories are still submerged, this information will be news: shocking, perhaps unbelievable, news.

Josiah raises his chin indignantly. "A _dove_. Not just a bird: a dove."

Gold smiles. "Indeed."

"You read the message. My job was done." Josiah sighs and his entire body slumps, supported by a porch column. "Lady Belle would be safe. I could rest. But before you went to her, you wrapped me in a cloth and set me in an open drawer."

"And when he came back from Avonlea, he brought me, and the war was over." Belle touches his elbow lightly, encouragingly.

"And for a long time, we were safe and happy." Josiah smiles at her, then blushes. "And then she came, in answer to my call, and we built a nest in Rumplestiltskin's grove."

Belle continues to touch his elbow, but she links her arm in Gold's. "And you and she came to visit the castle every morning and sing for us. We would come to the window of the Great Hall and open it, and you and she would perch on the sill and sing."

"Your music gave me an excuse to stand close to Belle," Gold raises her hand to his lips to kiss.

"And to show his gentler side. I remember walking in on him one morning, feeding a dove from the palm of his hand. I knew then," she dimples at her True Love, "you couldn't be a monster."

His eyebrows shoot up. "I don't remember that."

"I didn't let you see me. I slipped my shoes off so you wouldn't hear me and hid behind the Golden Fleece so you wouldn't see me."

"Ah. That must've been the morning my breakfast was served cold."

She gives his arm a playful slap. "But you didn't complain. You never did. Lumpy oatmeal, burnt toast, watery stew, but you never complained."

"You were learning, sweetheart, and so was I." He strokes her cheek with a finger. "So much I needed to learn, and still do."

"Mr. G—Master Rumplestiltskin?" Josiah begins.

"I'd prefer to be called by my true name now," Gold advises him. "It's been a long time. Do you remember yours?"

"Courage. You called me Courage then. And my mate was Faith." He glances hastily at Belle. "I'm sorry." He's fumbling to explain why he's sorry, but he doesn't quite understand; their situation now is utter chaos. The best he can do is apologize again.

"There's nothing to be sorry for," Belle assures him. "You were good to me. We weren't with the ones we were meant to love, but we were kind to each other." She frowns at Gold. "Why? What happened to us, Rumple?"

"It's a long story that begins and, gods help me, ends with Baelfire. I'll explain it all, and you're both going to want to alternately slap me and slap Regina at various points, but I hope—I trust—you'll forgive me, or at least understand, when you know the why of it." Suddenly his ankle throbs, and he leans on Belle as he bends to collect his cane, but Josiah beats him to it.

"Here, Mr.—Master Rumplestiltskin." Dove opens the screen door. "Let's get you two off your feet. We'll go into the kitchen and I'll make some tea."

But before they can cross the threshold, Belle's eyes widen and she doubles over, clutching her belly with a gasp. Josiah slides his arm around her shoulders to steady her. "What's wrong, Bindy? Do you need a doctor?"

Belle removes her hand from her belly as she straightens. "Oh my gods."

The three of them stare at her belly. With dread rising in his throat, Gold looks for blood; it's a miscarriage, he's certain of it. But he sees no blood on her stretchy-paneled jeans or her frilly white top. The clothes hang from her frame, clean and loose—the clothes hang from her frame. . . .

"Oh my gods, oh my gods," she's moaning, and her fake husband holds her, and he catches on: "Oh, gods, milady! We'll get you to the hospital." He scoops her easily into his arms and gallops to the driveway.

"The Caddy!" Gold barks, limping along behind. "Put her in the back."

Dove nods: the Caddy's blocking the garage; they couldn't get the Yukon out. Besides, the Caddy's ride will be smoother. As Gold yanks the back door open and Dove settles Belle into the backseat, she stops moaning. Dove makes his voice soothing. "We'll get you to the hospital fast. Don't worry; it's going to be all right." He goes around to the other side of the car, climbs into the back and draws her against him. "Are you in pain, milady?"

She shakes her head, closing her eyes as she slumps against Dove. Her hands tighten around her flat belly.

Gold is the last one to get it. It smacks him upside the head as he slides behind the steering wheel.

"Mr. G.? Can you drive? Mr. G.?"

Gold raises his head and thrusts the key into the ignition.

* * *

The psyche is as powerful as any instrument of magic, he thinks as he stands in the lime-green waiting room. And the emotions cast spells, unavoidable, inescapable; among the most powerful of these is denial. He'd stood on that porch, holding Belle, a full ten minutes, but during that time he never noticed what had happened to her body.

On the Naugahyde couch, Dove is breathing heavily, his elbows on his knees. On the coffee table before him is a Styrofoam cup of now cold coffee. Gold had bought it from the vending machine—a memory of Ms. Swan standing before that machine popped into his head as he dropped the quarters in the slot. He'll be hearing from her tonight; she promised it. He raises his face toward the ceiling: she's up there right now, in the children's ward. Henry's fully recovered, of course: he only needed to be awakened. The sleeping curse wouldn't have damaged his body, but it will have lingering effects that either Regina or Gold will need to help him cope with. But though the boy is all right, Whale won't have allowed him to be taken home yet. It's a doctor thing. No matter which set of memories he's operating from, Frankenwhale knows beans about magic.

The hospital's in a state of chaos, and not just because it has two emergency cases that science can't explain. Once the curse broke, the staff had to deal with their own symptoms, the most lasting of which are the emotional ones as they try to understand why they have memories of two distinct identities and two separate lives now occupying their heads. If they haven't already, they'll soon be rushing out into the streets to search for lost loved ones. When Dove carried Belle in, Gold had to bellow for assistance and bang his cane on the reception desk. A Candy Striper finally appeared and, though she apologized for not knowing what she was doing—she couldn't find a nurse or orderly anywhere—she shouted into an intercom, then grabbed a folded wheelchair, popped it open and held it steady as Dove eased Belle into it. With the men trailing, she wheeled Belle into an examining room, then ran back out again to find a doctor.

Gold and Dove had helped Belle onto the examining table, then waited silently, one on each side, each holding one of her hands.

"It's going to be all right," Gold assured her. He knew it, and he knew why he knew, and it made him feel ashamed.

"Are you in pain?" Dove returned to his earlier question.

"No." Belle shifted on the table. She couldn't set her feet down anywhere, and the edge of the table cut off the circulation in her thighs. "No pain. I don't feel anything." Her hands ran up and down her flat belly and she looked from Dove to Gold, her eyes pleading. "I don't feel _anything_." She reached out to Gold as a sob bubbled up from her chest. When his arms encircled her and drew her in, she gave in to her grief.

Flushed, the Candy Striper appeared then in the doorway, triumphant with Doc the dwarf beside her. Gold started to protest, but in Storybrooke Doc Seveigny was the one and only OB/GYN, and Storybrooke women swore by him; he'd been treating Belle all along. He gave Gold a confused look, then an annoyed one, but said nothing about the fact that the Dark One was holding another man's wife. "All right, gentlemen, it's time for you to step out. Ms. Martinez?"

The Candy Striper snapped to attention. "Yes, sir?"

"Show them to the waiting room, please. And Ms. Martinez? Good job."

The door closed in the men's faces.

And so they're waiting as phones ring and people in white run around. Gold watches them run. Briefly, he thinks he should help them: he could explain what's happened, assure them that they will find their families and friends; informing them would be the responsible, humane thing to do. If the mayor were anyone else but the sorceress who cast the curse, he would start by debriefing her, then they'd gather the city council and decide how best to disseminate the news. But the mayor being who she is and Gold being who he is, that's not going to happen.

As the Dark One, he's never experienced a sense of civil duty.

So Gold paces from one end of the waiting room to the other, and Dove slumps on the Naugahyde couch and they wait.

* * *

Ms. Martinez appears in the hallway. Gold notices for the first time she's just a kid, and she has a case of acne that he can cure for her with a wave of his hand, when he brings magic to Storybrooke. He owes her that, and Rumplestiltskin pays his debts. "Uhm, Mr. uhm, you can come in, Doc says." Both men look at her expectantly. "She asked for both of you, and Doc said yes." As the men follow her down the hall, she grins. "Doc said it was highly unusual for a woman to want her boss in the examining room, but Ms. Dove insisted—uh, Lady Belle."

As Dove opens the door to the examining room, Ms. Martinez sets a hand on Gold's arm. "We never met, but—I just wanted to say thanks to you and Lady Belle. See, my papa was a farmer in Avonlea. The ogres were just four miles from our farm when—" she wiggles her fingers. "Poof. No more ogres."

Gold fumbles with the handle of his cane so he won't have to meet her gaze. "It's Lady Belle who deserves your thanks. I just fulfilled my end of a deal."

"Yeah, we heard." She squeezes his elbow. "Thanks." She glances meaningfully toward the examining room. "I hope things work out okay for you two."

She's probably the only Storybrooker who does. "Ms. Martinez. . . you'll find your mama working at the cannery and your papa is the wine steward at La Tandoor."

She gives a teenage squeal and kisses his cheek. "Thanks, Mr. Gold!"

From a little roller stool parked beside Belle, Doc squints at Gold as he enters. Gold takes a position standing with his back at the closed door, facing Belle, who's sitting now on a straight-backed chair, with Dove standing behind her. But Belle holds her hands out to Gold, so, defying Doc's scowl, he goes to her side. She's pale and trembling, and as soon as he touches her she sinks into his arms and cries silently into his jacket.

Doc's expression softens as he stands up. "It's Archie she needs now, not me."

Gold surmises, "She's in good health, then?"

Doc nods. "Good health. But, ah," he licks his lips and shakes his head.

Dove blurts, "The baby? What about the baby?"

And as Belle begins to sob, Doc shakes his head again. "There is no baby."

"I don't understand."

"Mr. Dove, there never was a baby."

Gold presses Belle's head against his chest and strokes her hair.

"I don't get it. What happened?" Dove rubs his bald head nervously. "We were going to have a baby in less than four months. Was it a miscarriage?"

Doc lifts his shoulders in a helpless shrug. "There never was a baby. Belle wasn't pregnant."

Gold answers from deep in his chest. "There was a curse."

"We—the baby. . . was a lie?" Dove sinks down on Doc's roller chair.

"I'll give you some privacy. Take all the time you need." His hand on the doorknob, Doc advises, "Take her home, Mr. Gold. I'll ask Archie to visit her as soon as he can. What she needs now is time, rest. . . love." He leaves an unspoken question hanging in the air.

Gold nods. "I can provide all of that."

"You too," Doc adds. "You and Mr. Dove should talk to Archie too. In cases of miscarriage, the father's welfare is often overlooked." He opens the door. "And though technically it's not a miscarriage, it sure the hell feels like one." He leaves them alone.

Belle raises her face from Gold's chest just long enough to hold a hand out to Dove. After some hesitation, he clambers to his feet, the little stool skidding away. He comes to her side and holds her outstretched hand. She pulls her hand in, pulling him in too, and as he holds her hand and she cries against Gold's chest, the handyman drops his free hand onto Gold's shoulder.

Gold hears a second voice sobbing. He's not sure whose it is.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

They take Belle home, not to the ranch house, where maternity clothes hang in the closet and a nursery is under construction, and where fake family photos hang on the walls, but to the pink house. It's her preference; she states it without hesitation when Gold asks where she would like to go, and neither man challenges her. Dove says nothing when Belle walks directly through the foyer to the kitchen, fills the teakettle, gathers cups and milk and sugar, as comfortable in the space as if she lives here. She sits down at the kitchen table, resting her forehead on her arms.

"Maybe I should—" Dove hovers awkwardly in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen.

"Please, sit down," Gold says, opening the refrigerator. "I'm going to prepare supper."

Dove nods and seats himself across from Belle. He looks exhausted, physically and emotionally, and confused; he needs a quiet space too. It's too much at once, gaining a second complete identity and losing a baby all in one stroke.

When the kettle whistles, Belle doesn't seem to hear it; Gold prepares the tea. As he sets a cup before her, the grandfather clock in the dining room chimes six times.

The clock reminds him of his grand plan. By now he expected to have released the vial into the well. His fingers twitch, anticipating the surge of magic that will not come tonight. There are more urgent matters, he thinks, and then the darkness in him snorts: _Like drinking tea with your servants?_

The father in him snaps a reply: _Like mourning the loss of a child_.

The magic will wait until tomorrow; the search for Baelfire, another few days. Baelfire would understand.

Silently Gold moves about his kitchen, heating soup and slicing bread that Belinda baked just a few days ago, adding it to a platter with cheese and fruit. He grips Belle's shoulder, sending her some of his strength. "Please, eat something, Belle." She stares into her teacup, not budging, so he lays out some bread and cheese for her and gives Dove an encouraging nod.

Dove gets the message: he fills a plate for himself and begins to eat, though his motions are all automatic. Belle rouses, watching him, and when Gold sets a bowl of soup before her she picks up her spoon. Gold smiles encouragingly. "Just a little would help, sweetheart."

She swallows a few spoonfuls.

"Keep her eating," Gold says quietly, and Dove nods. As Gold climbs the stairs, his ankle squeals for all the pressure he's put on it today. After he's found Bae, he'll fix his ancient injury, but not until then: with each step he takes, the pain reminds him that the purpose of his journey is, and always has been, to get home to Bae.

He's come to prepare a room for Belle to sleep in. He selects the bedroom farthest from the nursery, and after he's covered the bed with fresh linen, he moves on to the nursery and locks its door, slipping the key into his jacket. If Belle should get up in the night, he doesn't want her wandering into the room that he prepared for Adelena. When he locks the door, he doesn't look inside.

Coming downstairs, he hears Dove talking, yammering nervously about a '68 Corvette that a buddy's restoring. He ladles out a bowl of soup for himself and tries to join in: if he and Dove fill the silence, perhaps their chatter will lift Belle, enough that she will eat, and perhaps enough that she can rest tonight.

Gold knows nothing about Corvettes, or about 1968, for that matter. But he feigns an interest, asks questions, and his hope rises when Belle's spoon clatters into an empty bowl and she reaches for a slice of melon.

She's trying too, and Gold blesses her for it. "Perhaps we could watch _The Tempest _tonight?" she suggests.

Gold stiffens in his chair, but keeps smiling. The ending of _The Tempest_ disturbs him: the powerful mage Prospero forgives his enemies, sends his only child off to a new life and then surrenders his magic before asking forgiveness for his own crimes. "And my ending is despair/Unless I be relieved by prayer." Gold's not sure he can handle that tonight, but he would deny Belle nothing; whatever will bring her small comfort, he will bear. "Let's do that," he says, gathering up the dishes.

It's only a little awkward, retiring to the living room with his True Love and her husband: when Belle curls up on the couch, instead of sitting beside her, Dove takes the recliner and Gold takes the rocking chair, each man avoiding anything that could anger the other. This is no time for territory disputes. If they can stay civil, the three of them might just be able to come out of this okay; certainly, much better off than the Nolans and Mary-Margaret have been, with Regina's interference.

Dove falls asleep during Act I. His head lolls before finally settling on his shoulder, and his snores rival the storms that Prospero conjures. Gold and Belle share a smile. "He does that every night," Belle says. "Falls asleep after supper, the remote in his hand." They let him snooze as they watch the play. When it's finished, Gold turns off the television and Belle leans over, giving Dove a shake. "Jo, wake up." There's a fond familiarity in her expression that unsettles Gold.

Dove snuffles, rubs his nose and hauls himself upright in the chair. "Huh?"

"You fell asleep, Jo," Belle explains.

"Like always," Dove admits. "Sorry, Bin." He grins over at Gold. "Real comfortable chair, Mr. G."

"It is," Gold confirms. "I fall asleep in it too."

"Guess I'd better be going." Dove stands. "If I could borrow your car?"

"Of course." Gold hands him the key. "See you at the shop at nine, Josiah?"

Relief washes over Dove's face, and Gold realizes this is what they all need right now: normalcy, or at least an attempt at it. "Sounds good. Yeah. We have that shipment from the auction house coming in." He shakes Gold's hand. "See you in the morning, Mr. G."

"See you in the morning," Gold agrees.

Dove turns to Belle. "I'll bring by a change of clothes for you around eight-thirty, okay?" He touches her elbow awkwardly. "Good night, Belle."

She throws her arms around his neck—he has to stoop and she has to rise on tiptoe—and kisses his cheek. "Goodnight, Jo. Thank you. For everything."

He smiles down at her. "Thanks, Bin. For everything." Dove pats her cheek fondly before leaving.

Through the open door she waves and watches him drive away. Gold gives her her privacy, retreating to the kitchen to fill the dishwasher. It's several minutes before she wanders into the kitchen and silently wipes the crumbs from the table. He casts worried glances at her, but her back remains turned to him.

Gold dries his hands on a towel. He begins tentatively, "He's a good man."

"Yes."

"Are you okay?"

When she turns, she's red-faced. "I'm sorry, Rumple."

"Why?" In surprise he touches her shoulder. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

"It's like I was unfaithful to you."

"You were Belinda then, not Belle, and for most of those years, I wasn't Rumple. Until a year ago, you were just my housekeeper and he was my handyman and my friend. When I thought of you with him, I felt envy, not jealousy."

"Envy?"

"Because you had a happy marriage. Your happiness stood out all the more because no one else in Storybrooke had that, not even the richest man in town. It was as Regina intended, that I would envy the people who worked for me." He pauses. "You were happy with Josiah, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"I'm glad."

"You said, 'Until a year ago.'"

"The curse broke for me the day Ms. Swan came to town. It was. . . written into the curse that way, so I could make preparations. I'll tell you the whole story, but not tonight."

"No, I don't think I could, tonight."

"What would help you right now, Belle?"

It's the best question he could have asked her; she rewards him with a relieved smile. "I'm not up to talking. Later, but not now. Would you just sit with me?" She holds out a hand in invitation, and when he takes it, she leads him to the couch, where she snuggles against him and he slides a comforting arm around her shoulders, stroking her hair. They sit, listening to the grandfather clock tick, watching the sun sink and the streetlights come on. She clutches his free hand, but eventually her hold on him loosens and her breathing evens. She isn't sleeping; he can tell from the depth of her breathing; but she is finding a peaceful moment in time to rest in.

By her request, he sleeps beside her that night; she asks for his bed rather than the guest room he prepared for her. She's wearing a pinned-up pair of his pajamas, and when he sinks into the bed beside her, she draws his arm around her hip and rests her head on his shoulder. In the safety of the darkness, she asks, "What happens next?"

"I don't know," he admits. "I want to find my son. When you feel ready to travel. . . .?"

"I'd like that." She falls silent a while, and he's content just listening to her breathe. Then she thinks of another question—his Belle, always with another question. "And the others? Ruby, David, Mary Margaret, Leroy? What happens to them?"

"They will return to their loved ones. It may be complicated, as it will be for us, but the families will sort themselves out. Archie will be needed more than ever, I imagine."

"Will they go back? To the Enchanted Forest, I mean."

"That would require magic."

There's a note of disappointment in her "oh." It encourages him: perhaps she won't be completely adverse to his bringing magic to this land. But he won't raise that subject tonight.

"Maybe they won't want to go back," she speculates. "I mean, who wouldn't choose central heating and indoor plumbing and refrigerators?"

"And cars and airplanes and computers and TVs."

"And stereos and vacuum cleaners and hair dryers and washing machines and electric stoves," she giggles, snuggling closer to him.

"I take it that, given a choice, you'd choose this world."

"Hands down." She sighs. "But that's one vote out of three."

"Three?"

"You and Baelfire might want to go back."

"And you'd go—"

"Where you go."

"Ah, Belle." His throat tightens, as does his hold on her hip. He tries to think of some elegant way to express his gratitude, but emotion chokes him, so he merely kisses the top of her head.

"We're going to be okay, aren't we?" she asks. "You and me and Bae and Jo."

"We'll work it out, I promise," he assures her. "We have too much going for us, to lose it to anger or jealousy."

"Rumple?" She raises her head; her eyes shimmer in the dark.

"Sweetheart?"

"The yellow bedroom. . . you would've welcomed the baby, wouldn't you?"

"I would have loved her."

"You would've been a great stepdad."

"We would have made it work," he repeats. "You and me and Josiah. We could have. All of us, for the baby's sake. For our own sake, to get to raise her and love her."

"Would Bae have liked having a sister?"

"I'm sure he would've."

"Rumple?"

"Yes, love?"

"You seem awfully sure it would have been a girl."

"Just a hunch," he admits. "I can't see the future any more."

"Maybe that's best." She rests her head against his chest again. "Life should be layered."

"A mystery to be—" but his voice catches and he can't complete the sentence. Her hand presses against his cheek and her thumb brushes away wetness there. Her own shoulders start to shake and for both of them, the dam bursts.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

The boards creak as, barefoot, he eases down the stairs, determined not to wake Belle. How quickly their bodies, if not their minds, have fallen back into old patterns: he an early riser, she a late sleeper. He realizes as the railing rasps against its bolts when he clutches it that he never noticed before how dried-out and achy this old house is (yet not half as old as he is). But now that she's here, the house will rejuvenate, as will he.

He decides to make pancakes.

Funny, a hundred minute details about her have sprung to mind, just as though the thirty-two years between their parting in the Enchanted Forest and yesterday's curse breaking had shriveled up and blown away like dry winter leaves in a spring wind, leaving fresh green memories. She likes pancakes drizzled with honey. She's muddle-headed when she first wakes up. She always blushes when he performs small acts of kindness for her, as though she somehow thinks she doesn't deserve them.

He doesn't like pancakes.

He makes pancakes for her.

When breakfast is ready, he arranges it on a tray and carries it upstairs. It takes three trips because, with only one hand free to carry the tray, he has to keep the load light. He doesn't mind. He grins like a schoolboy on the first day of his first crush. He's bringing her sweetness on a plate and sunshine in a glass. But really, he's bringing her his unbridled heart.

He wakes her in the way he's wanted to, for so many years: he opens the drapes to allow sunlight in, as she once did for him, and then he brushes her hair back from her face and kisses her cheek. Muddle-headed, she blinks, focuses, props herself up and frowns as she looks around–this room is not what she's expecting; it's not hers, not yet, but it will be soon. He greets her and the frown vanishes, and when she sees his offering, she smiles.

And blushes.

"You cooked for me?" She runs her hands through her hair, pushing it back, and arranging pillows behind her back, she sits up fully. "Pancakes?"

He balances the tray on her lap, then drags an armchair close to the bed so he can sit down. His ankle's complaining from all the stair climbing but he doesn't notice. What he does notice is the delight in her eyes as she picks up the little plastic bear and squeezes its belly, drizzling honey on her pancakes. "Thank you."

He waits quietly as she eats. He's never been much of a cook–in his spinner days, when cooking was a necessity, he had so little to work with; even salt was a precious commodity. In this world, he's has an embarrassing abundance of ingredients and implements, but no son or wife to cook for. Perhaps that will change in the not-too-distant future.

A smear of honey ends up in a lock of her hair and she laughs.

He'd give every object in his shop for the privilege of bringing her pancakes every morning.

"Wait for me," he urges. "I need to go into the shop this morning. I'm expecting a delivery." He doesn't mention that it's from Emma, not the antique auction. "But I'll make it a half-day."

"I should go ho–" she stops herself.

He feels the prick of panic, wondering how she intended to finish that sentence. "I've had much more time than you to adjust to–" he waves a hand around vaguely. "I won't rush you. If you want to get a place of your own. . . . If you want to go back to your father's house. . . .But I don't think you should go. . . back there, to Josiah's. . . . "

"I meant, to pick up my things. Not to stay." She reddens. "Last night, I just presumed–I didn't ask if it would be okay–if you wanted me here."

"You said last night that you never wanted us to be separated again. I realize, once things settle down and all the initial confusion of the curse breaking is over–." He's giving her a graceful way out, if she wants it. He's pretty sure, though, she won't. "I'm a better man than I was when we last lived together, but I'm still a bit of a bastard. Quite a bit of a bastard, actually."

"Don't lean on that like a crutch," she warns, "like you don't have a choice. " Belle rests her hand on the tray. "The man who made me pancakes–"

"Is the same man who made a curse that affected an entire town. And he'd do it again, if he had to, to find his son." He leans forward, his hands clasped between his knees. "That ruthlessness will always be a part of me, but when you came into my life I started to want to reclaim the other half of myself, and I promise you, I'll keep trying." He ducks his head so she can't see his face. "It's too soon after the curse breaking and. . . the baby. . . to make plans. But for today, stay with me and let's do ordinary things and pretend everything is fine. We all need that today, I think."

She sets the tray on the nightstand. "Well, I can't go out until Jo brings me some clothes. Besides, I feel like doing some vacuuming this morning." There's fondness in her smile as she stands and looks around the bedroom of his old house. "It's been a while since I last cleaned this house, hasn't it? I kind of feel like I've neglected the old girl." She bends to press her lips to his cheek. "One day at a time, Rumple."

* * *

When he brings the promised change of clothes, Josiah comes to the back door, as he always has. Gold notices he's brought only three or four days' worth of garments in a cardboard box: does he expect Belle will get disgusted by the end of the week and come home to the ranch house? But Belle notices something that tells a different story: puffiness and dark circles under Jo's eyes. She presses a cup of coffee into his hand and remarks, "You didn't sleep last night, did you?"

"Don't worry about me," the handyman shrugs.

"I'm sorry," Belle says.

"I'll get used to it. It's still just kind of raw, you know? But there's a whole lot of other people in the same boat. On the courthouse lawn, there's a missing persons message board. People looking for their families. And, uh, on the streets you see cars and trucks filled with people's belongings." He shifts from foot to foot. "People moving out from the places they were living in, to move in with their rightful families." He clears his throat. "Guess we'll be pretty busy for a while, rewriting leases."

"My leases are airtight," Gold mutters. "With a substantial penalty for failure to pay rent."

"But we're not gonna hold them to it, are we, Mr. G.? I mean, besides how nasty that would be, it's gonna be hard to enforce, right? Considering the sheriff isn't likely to back you up. It could even be argued the leases aren't valid, since the tenants signed them with false names."

Belle is shooting Gold a glacial glare, so he capitulates. "I suppose in the long run it will even out, since there's nowhere in town they can move that I don't own. They'll just be moving from one of my properties to another."

"Rumple," Belle now smiles sweetly. "This is your chance to do a unique civic good."

"If you're going to suggest I waive rent–"

"I know better than to suggest that. But I'm betting you, with your tenant lists and your intact memories of the Enchanted Forest, could help reunite families."

"Hey, what a great idea!" Josiah brightens for the first time. "Give us something to do while we're waiting for the delivery."

"I was looking forward to a game of dominoes," Gold grumps, but Belle and Dove know they've won. He'll do it, not because it's right or because he wants to make families happy, but because it will make his old friend feel better. Besides, such a Boy Scout deed will surely ingratiate him to Queen Snow and Princess Emma, which just may save his sorry hide from Charming when the lot of them find out who created the curse.

The grandfather clock chimes nine times.

"Mr. Dove, you're late for work."

* * *

As Dove rattles off the alphabetical list of tenants, Gold assigns the true names to those he knows. It's less than half: Regina wrote most of the Storybrooke part of the curse, feeding into it a lengthy list of her enemies and assigning them roles in her new kingdom. Rumplestiltskin didn't give a damn whom she chose to drag along: all he cared about was the destination and the savior waiting for her big moment. Had he known, however, that Belle was alive and that Regina would dangle her under his nose, he would've gotten a lot more involved in the planning of the guest list. A hell of a lot more involved.

"Mr. G.?"

"Huh?"

"Michael Marine, owner of Marine Garage?"

"You mean, renter of Marine Garage. He's Finrod, an elf. His mate is Amarie; here, she's Ann Marie Rangel, an electrician."

Josiah writes a number beside Marine's name, then skims through the ledger to the "R's" and writes the same number beside Rangel. Flipping back to the "M's" he continues, "Marti Martin, sales clerk at the shoe store."

"Don't know him."

"It's a her."

"Oh. Still don't–wait. Cassie, the Old Lady Who Lived–"

Josiah chuckles: it's a heartening sound. "In a Shoe. So of course she works in the shoe store."

Gold clicks his tongue. "Regina's lack of imagination has always held her back. She could've been so much more than an Evil Queen if she'd had just a little creativity. Anyway, Ms. Martin is a widow. She has six kids–Josiah, this is going to take all day! Why don't we just let them find each other with no interference from us, eh? It'll give the reunions an element of anticipation and surprise."

But Josiah shakes his head. "When Bindy comes, she's going to ask if we did what we were supposed to. I never could look at those big blue eyes and lie to her, not even when I accidentally drove my riding lawn mower through her flower garden."

The men share a smile. "Yeah. She's the kind that's hard to lie to. I, uh, once accidentally tripped and spilled a potion on her gold ball gown. Fffft! The dress fizzled and vanished into thin air. I wanted to tell her the fairies stole it, but–"

"You couldn't bring yourself to lie to her?"

"Nope." Gold's eyes twinkle. "But that may have been because she was wearing the dress at the time."

Josiah snickers.

Gold hesitates. He and Josiah are guys, and guys don't talk about their feelings except in guy code, couching their emotions in sports talk. But he notices the thread of loneliness running beneath Dove's jokes, and he notices the dark circles under Dove's eyes. "You miss her."

"Yeah. Both of them." Dove rubs his forehead and his voice drops. "I was going to name him after my father–it was gonna be a boy. Bindy said a girl, but I knew it was a boy. Bindy wanted me in the delivery room with her. We were reading up on Lamaze. . . ."

Gold looks away to give the man a moment of privacy, and as his eyes roam the shop, his gaze falls upon the brown leather ball perched on a display platform. In an instant memory transports him to a cottage in a far-away, long-ago land, where a gray-eyed woman stands before a cozy fireplace. In her arms is a squirming, cooing bundle wrapped in a shawl. For the privilege of being present for that single moment, Rumplestiltskin had paid dearly, but no price was too high.

Dove had been anticipating such a moment, and to have the promise of it ripped from him must be awful.

"I mean, now that my memories are back, I know Faith was my True Love, but Bindy was. . .you just feel better when she's around, you know?" At Gold's nod, Josiah thinks for a moment, then his eyes widen. "Hell, Mr. G., you were awake from the curse for a full year. And us working for you–it must've been crazy, seeing her and me together, knowing. . .how things were supposed to be."

"Yeah. So. . . Widow Martin, huh? Okay, her eldest works at the cannery, I believe."

* * *

Belle arrives just before noon with sandwiches. She distributes them and makes a fresh pot of coffee. "It's chaos out there. People running around trying to find each other. This is the only business in town that's open. School, city hall, Granny's, all closed. Emma and Snow and David are trying to organize everyone, but they really could use that list. How's it coming?"

The men chortle.

"What's so funny?"

"I'm pleased to report that we're on the 'T's," Gold announces, then he laughs and Dove laughs too.

"Come on, fellas, what's–you haven't been nipping at that bottle of bourbon that you think I don't know you keep in the bottom drawer of your desk, have you?"

"No, we were just talking about flower gardens," Dove confesses.

Gold adds, "And ball gowns."

"You." She looks from the linebacker-built handyman to the ice-water-veined pawnbroker, and she's not buying a word of their explanation. "And you. Talking about flowers and ball gowns."

Dove shrugs. "Well, football season's months off yet."

"I'm glad you're both in a good mood and making such speedy progress." She folds her arms. "Because Snow's coming for that list right after lunch."


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

"Have you looked out your window today, Gold?–Hi, Jo, Belinda." Charming's voice precedes him as the front door swings open and the shopkeeper's bell jingles. "It's a madhouse out there."

"Good afternoon to you too, Prince David." Gold's lips curl in that smile that really isn't a smile. He nods to the female members of the family. "Queen Snow. Princess–"

"Don't you dare, Gold," Emma interrupts. "Let's keep it 'Ms. Swan' or 'Sheriff,' huh? Unless you want me to start calling you 'Rumpie.' And before you get all 'pays me what you owes me,' I haven't forgotten I owe you a favor."

"Two."

"Fine. Two," Emma sighs. "But in case you haven't noticed, the town's a mess right now, so those favors are gonna have to wait."

Coming up beside him, Belle gives Gold's jacket tail a little tug. He gets the point: for her, he'll play nice. It's to his advantage anyway; the sooner Emma gets Storybrooke in order, the sooner she'll pay those two favors. "Perhaps Mr. Dove and I can help. Oh, pardon me. I believe some re-introductions are in order. Your Majesties, Lady Belle of Avonlea and Josiah Dove of the Dark Mountains."

"Belinda, you're Lady Belle?" Snow captures Belle's hands. "Then is Moe French also Lord Maurice?" Emma elbows Snow, but Snow keeps talking. "I met him once, when he came to ask my father for help against the ogres."

Emma elbows Snow again and whispers something in her ear. Snow catches her breath and her gaze falls to Belle's flat belly. "Forgive me, Belle. I didn't realize. . . .I'm so sorry for your loss. Are you all right?"

"I'm okay," Belle mumbles, running her hand across her belly. "I don't really want to talk about it."

David's puzzled, not following the too-subtle conversation, so before he starts asking questions that will make Belle even more uncomfortable, Gold pushes the legal pad at him. "Here. This should help with your madhouse."

"And this is?"

"An identification guide."

"How's this work?" David's trying to figure out Dove's notation system.

"Mr. Dove will work with you this afternoon," Gold offers. "I don't expect much business in the shop today."

"Mr. Gold, thank you for this list. What do we owe you?" Sweet, shy Mary Margaret has been replaced, Gold thinks, by the royal bandit he once knew and admired. He has a vivid recollection of her asking him pretty much the same question when he presented Robin Hood's bow to her. Does she remember that day, he wonders, and did she ever realize the part he'd played then in reuniting her with Charming? And her daughter, the blonde Amazon, stands behind her, as if ready to attack if he threatens harm to Snow. She could do damage, even to him, Emma could, but she doesn't know it yet. He made her the curse breaker, but the Fates have assigned her a much bigger role that is yet to be discovered.

It's a good thing Belle is standing beside him, through her body language informing the royals which side she's on. They like Belle and some of that might transfer to him by association. Well, perhaps "like" is too much to hope for; "tolerance," then.

He casts a sideways glance at Belle, watching her reaction when he says, "No charge." She rewards him with a big smile–she's probably planning to reward him later with praise, but the fact is, this information he's providing Snow is a just a single payment on a debt he owes the innocents Regina dragged into this world. He hadn't been directly involved as she selected her victims, but he'd known what she was doing and had remained passive. The truth was, in those days, believing Belle dead and only Bae remained to live for, he just couldn't give a damn.

Things are different now. Belle's shoulder brushes against his, reminding him that for some bewildering reason, the Fates have chosen him for her to rescue.

David catches the shoulder brush and his eyes widen.

"No charge," Gold reiterates.

"Thank you." The tension eases now from Snow's shoulders. She's never trusted him but she's always believed him; she's one of the few he did give a damn about, and somehow she knows that. She turns to Dove. "We're working out of the courthouse. If you're ready?"

"Yes, ma'am." Dove holds the door for her and begins explaining the symbols on his legal pad.

"I'll be back tomorrow morning, Gold," Emma says, her fingers trailing idly across the case that is still sitting atop his counter. She seems fascinated by the case; soon enough he'll tell her why it's special. "To start paying down those favors."

"I shall be waiting."

She transfers her interest in the case to him. "If we had time right now, I'd be ordering you to give a full explanation about this curse business, since it doesn't look like we'll get one from Regina."

"If we had time," he acknowledges. "But that too will have to wait. Has there been any sign of our dear mayor?"

"There was a report of a black Mercedes leaving town at sunrise today. Headed east. Only two people in Storybrooke can afford a Mercedes, and obviously, you prefer big cars, so we figure she's out of our hair."

"For the time being. Nevertheless, the town should be alerted. I don't think she'll give up Henry without another fight."

"Well, maybe I can hire an attorney this time."

"Should they be needed, I may be able to offer my services this time."

Emma starts to follow her mother out, but pauses. "You didn't ask how Henry is. You knew he'd be okay, didn't you?"

"Your love for him is true."

She nods. "I'll be back tomorrow morning." The shopkeeper's bell jingles as she leaves.

Her father, however, lingers with a sly smile on his face. "So, uhm," he tilts his head toward Belle. "Flicker of light in an ocean of darkness?"

Gold's smile turns silly. "A full-on lighthouse, actually."

As David leaves, Gold takes Belle's hand. "Shall we go home?"

She doesn't get the chance to answer. Jefferson comes busting in even as Gold is flipping over the "closed" sign. "Rumplestiltskin!" He gives Belle a hasty nod. "Hey, Belle." He grabs a handful of Gold's jacket. "Rumplestiltskin! You've gotta help me."

"Not now, dearie. This Boy Scout's done his mandatory good deed for the day." Gold pries the fingers from his lapel. "And you, of all people, should know better than to manhandle Armani."

"Please." Jefferson runs his hands through his wild shock of hair. "It's Grace."

Belle sets a soft hand on Gold's arm. "Rumple, we can take the time to listen."

"Sweetheart, you need to rest."

"It's about a child," she says firmly.

"All right, Jefferson." He directs the hatter toward the workroom. "Come back, I'll pour you a cup of coffee, and tells us what–"

He's interrupted by a ringing phone. Gold blinks: he didn't even know that old black rotary phone on his counter worked: it's never rung before. Belle calmly takes charge, ushering the men to the back room. "I'll get that. You go back there and talk." She picks up the receiver.

"Thank you, Belle." Gold sighs in relief.

"I'm glad to be needed," she says, then speaks into the mouthpiece. "Gold's Pawn."

Jefferson fidgets as Gold invites him to be seated on the workbench, but then, he always was a fidgeter. A pitfall of youth: too much energy, too narrow a vision to take the long view. "She found me. I was going to her but she found me first and she remembered everything and she still loves me but—"

"Jefferson." Gold clamps a hand firmly onto the hatter's shoulder, anchoring him to the bench. "Calm down. Hmm, maybe you shouldn't have that coffee after all." He plugs in the kettle, sprinkles tea leaves into his teapot, and places a sugar bowl and a spoon in front of his guest.

Jefferson stares at the sugar bowl as if he has no idea what it's for. "But she loves them too. She doesn't want to hurt their feelings. They love her, they still think of her as their daughter—"

"It's only been one day," Gold points out, sitting down across from the hatter. "The freeing up of original memories—real memories—didn't erase the false ones. People are going to need time to adjust."

"Two sets of memories in one head." The lad shakes his head in disbelief. "It's pure hell. She must be going out of her mind. How do I help her?"

"It's not that bad. Headaches and confusion for the first ten minutes or so, but then the mind begins to order itself; the headache goes away. For most of the people here, their false identities were different enough from the real ones that they're able to sort out which memories go where fairly quickly." The water is bubbling, so Gold unplugs the kettle and pours the water into the pot and covers it. "And for most people here, the joy of rediscovering family and friends will help them overcome the confusion rather quickly. I'm sure that will be true for Grace."

"What about the other thing? Two sets of parents, two houses—Rumple, you got to help me. You're still a lawyer, right? No, wait, that was your fake self. I suppose nothing you'd do now would stand up in court."

Bringing the pot to the worktable, Gold smiles stiffly. "I suppose it would depend upon which court: Maine's or Queen Snow's. My memories of this world may be fake, but my knowledge of the laws of this world is accurate. Fake license or not, I'm still better qualified in matters of family law than anyone else here."

"Yeah, I guess. Will you take the case? You know I can pay whatever you charge."

"Calm down, youngster. You'll give yourself a heart attack." Gold sets the timer on his watch. "Grace has been living with the Wilsons for thirty years. Of course they've bonded. And they're good people. You don't want to drive them out of her life, do you?"

"But I'm—"

Gold raises a warning hand. "I know you are. She knows you are. They know you are. But she's a child, not a—a hat you made. It's her needs you should be thinking about." He sighs. "I'm going out of town tomorrow, for an indefinite period of—"

"You can't! You have to help me with this."

Gold quirks an eyebrow. "'Have to'? I don't owe you anything, Jefferson."

"It's a little girl, a ten-year-old child."

"What about _my_ child?" The alarm on Gold's wristwatch buzzes. He shuts it off and pours the tea into the three cups.

"What do you mean? You have a child?"

Gold stands, picking up his cane and one of the cups. "Pardon me a moment. Belle might like a cup." He ignores Jefferson's protests and taps out to the front, where Belle is leaning one elbow on the counter and taking notes. Her shoulder is hunched to press the phone receiver to her ear.

"Uh huh. . . . Yeah. . . .Don't worry. I'm sure he can help. . . . Oh, don't worry about that. It's restoring families that he cares about, not money."

"Belle!" Gold yelps. He sets the cup down and tries to reach for the phone, but she turns her back to him.

"Of course. . . He'll call you later today, I promise. And don't worry. It'll all get straightened out. . . .Yes, I promise. Goodbye, Ms. Crawford." She smiles brightly and innocently at him as she hangs up. "Tea? Oh, thanks so much. I'm parched." But before she can bring the cup to her lips, the phone rings again.

"Belle, are you aware that my normal fee is more per hour than the average Storybrooker makes in three days?"

"Oh, I'm telling everyone you'll waive your fee this one time." She sips the mint tea and sighs. "So good."

"What, the tea or me?" he grouses, and she gives him a playful swat before picking up the receiver.

"Gold's Pawn. This is Belle. How may I—oh, yes, Mr. Bartleby, but he's with a client right now. Why don't you tell me the situation and I'll have him call as soon as he can. All right?" She winks at Gold.

Gold turns back to the workroom. "Good gods. You'll have me bankrupt before the end of the month." But he smiles over his shoulder at her.

She's hoarse as they close up shop, two hours later than his normal closing time. "Your first appointment is for nine. I've scheduled them an hour apart—"

"Them?! How many are there?"

"I hope an hour's enough time for an initial assessment. I figure we should work out of your den at home. The furniture's so much more comfortable and you've got your law books and your computer there, and I can bring in tea and sandwiches so you won't have to interrupt your work to eat lunch."

"You're taking my lunch hour away too? That's uncivilized!" He unlocks the front door. "If we're going to work from home tomorrow, I have to get something."

She waits in the entrance as he retrieves the case from the counter, and they leave again.

"What's that?"

"Something Ms. Swan will be picking up in the morning. Remind me to call her tonight."

She giggles as she kisses his cheek. "Isn't it great to be needed? You've had thirty years of standing behind a counter waiting for someone to walk in to that shop. Well, now they're coming. And you get to work out of the comfort of your own home. I can put on some music in the background, open the drapes—the windows in your den look out over the garden. If your ankle stiffens, you can go out and take a walk. Won't that be nice?"

"I suppose I could write it off on my taxes, if I'm using the den as a home office, then." He tucks her arm into his as he directs her to the back alley, where the Caddy is parked.

"In the morning I'll get a stew going in the crockpot, and then I can come in and take notes for you, if you like. We can leave the door to the den open so the smells from the kitchen waft through."

"Ohhh, Belle. . . With those little pearl onions?" She's won, even if the answer on the onions is no.

"And cloverleaf rolls. And a pie. I think I have a carton of blueberries. For supper tonight, I'll do a spinach quiche, and then we'll get your den in order. You know, I'm a good researcher. I can save you time, look things up for you in your books." In the streetlight, she appears pale, but she's glowing. To be in a position in which her special skills will be called upon to help people, it's the best medicine she could take right now. However irksome the thought is of having his precious time chewed up by all these whiny people who lack the backbone and the intelligence to work out their own agreements, he won't take away the medicine that's brought her energy back.

Well, Josiah can run the shop and manage the rental properties. Maybe the work will do him some good too. If Gold and Belle devote themselves full-time to the law practice, probably in a couple of weeks they'll have finished with all the families requiring his services. And meantime, during those couple of weeks, he can sneak away when she's asleep to experiment. He's no rose-colored-glasses-wearing fool: he realizes that when magic is introduced to a land for the first time, it may behave differently. Testing will be required before he's confident enough in his understanding of those differences to depend upon magic again. . . to trust it again.

It's then, and not until then, he decides, that he will tell Belle what he's done. He wants to be powerful, fully himself again, before he faces this woman's wrath.

Chattering, she's leaning on him; with his limp, he's leaning on her. It works out well. Her plan will work out well. They will work out very well.

* * *

**A/N. In case anyone was wondering about my choice of the spelling of Josiah's nickname–"Jo" instead of the more common "Joe"–it's a tribute to screenwriter Jo Swerling and his son, TV producer Jo Jr.**

**Thank you to everyone for the comments and the favorites! Coming up: Belle prods Gold into becoming a good citizen; a father and a daughter tag-team a dragon, the remainder of the curse places Dove in a perilous predicament and pushes Belle into making a difficult decision, and magic is coming. But first, I've always felt the series glossed over the problem of the families that the curse created, families like Paige and her Storybrooke parents; just because the Storybrooke identities were unreal doesn't mean the love was too. So I'm going to spend a little time exploring that, and perhaps by reflecting on his feelings for a baby that never really existed, Gold will see the full ramifications of the curse.**


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

He awakens in the middle of the night, needing the bathroom, but he quickly forgets the call of nature when he notices there's a pillow where Belle should be. He slides into his slippers, grabs his cane and thumps from room to room in search of her. Dread rises when he's searched both floors of their house and hasn't located her. He begins to flip on lights to look for clues. Her keys are with his, in the bowl on the credenza in the foyer. Her blue coat and her windbreaker are in the hall closet next to his coats. The notepad on the fridge carries only a grocery list, no note. He tries to make his voice sound demanding but it comes out a bit shaky as he calls her name.

The back door is unlocked. "Belle!" he barks, stumbling out on the porch.

"Here, Rumple." The light from the kitchen streams through the open door, creating bright pools of light. He can see her feet in their bunny slippers, but the rest of her is in shadow. He's so relieved he doesn't notice the scratchiness in her voice. He flips on the porch light and she blinks, drenched in light.

"Are you okay?" He comes out into the chilly night.

"I just came out to—aw, who am I kidding?" She's huddled in her bathrobe and swaying in the swing. She slides over to make room for him; he sits beside her and to his relief, she snuggles against him. There's a mini-package of Kleenex peeping out of her pocket and her nose is stuffy. "I dreamed about the baby."

He slides an arm about her shoulders. He has no idea what to say. Not even magic could take away this pain. He brushes her hair back from her face and kisses her forehead. "Shall we call Archie tomorrow?"

"I'll be all right. It's just going to take a while," she assures him. "We're going to be awfully busy tomorrow; that will help. What we'll be doing, it's important. It's good."

"Yes."

"And I imagine Archie's just as busy as we'll be, helping these families reconnect."

"Your feelings are just as important as anyone else's. He'll make time." There's no one in Storybrooke who wouldn't make time for Belinda Dove.

"How about you? Would you like to talk to him too?"

He's ready to refuse. It's never been in his nature to confide or confess, not even when he was a frightened child whose father had thrown him away. He wouldn't even know how to begin; it's difficult enough to open up with the woman he trusts implicitly. How could he, the most powerful being in two lands, go hat-in-hand to the man he used to buy stolen goods from? He pictures himself in his Armani suit and Ferragamos sobbing on the former cricket's shoulder: "The curse fooled me too, Doctor. I had duckies and everything ready for a baby that didn't even exist." The image makes him snort. Duckies and teddy bears and all that–except the snort ends in a gulp.

Belle notices and grips his arm. He glances down at her, embarrassed; he's the man here, damn it, the sorcerer, the 300-year-old sage. He's supposed to be offering her wise words of comfort.

"One of the things I've always admired about you is your deep capacity for caring," she says softly. "Time and distance couldn't weaken your love for Bae, and I think you would have shown Adelena and me the same dedication. You miss her too, don't you?"

He rests his cheek against the top of her head. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to have a few words with Archie."

* * *

The doorbell interrupts his waffle baking. He hurries to front door, ready to cuss out Jefferson for disturbing him at an ungodsly hour and probably waking Belle, but he finds the three adult Charmings on his stoop instead. For a man who's built his careers on words, the best he can manage as he invites in a curious David, a grim Emma and a sympathetic-eyed Snow is "humpf."

"I came like I promised," Emma says.

"And I came to see how Belle is doing," Snow says.

Which leaves Charming. Gold scowls at him and he shrugs. "I came because I just don't trust you."

Gold can't hold in a chuckle. "You like waffles?"

Belle has dressed–ready for her first day as a paralegal, she's in a blazer and slacks, with her hair in a bun; he finds the professional look quite enticing on her–and she's in the kitchen, making coffee. She welcomes their guests, kisses Gold's cheek, and brings extra dishes from the cupboard. "Join us for breakfast? There's more than enough."

"That's so kind of you." Snow comes over to the stove. "May I help?" And she's instantly put in charge of squeezing oranges.

"Mm, waffles. . . ." Emma peers over Gold's shoulder as he pours batter into the waffle iron. "From scratch, too, not the toaster kind. Never pictured you for a cook, Gold."

"I make exceptions for the right people." He smiles over at Belle.

"Man, you people eat good. Our fridge was bare: all we had was cereal."

"If you wish to speed things along so you can assuage your hunger, you can start the bacon. You'll find a skillet in the bottom cupboard."

David pitches in. "I'll set the table." Silverware in hand, he pauses to survey the scene. "Not every day you see this. A queen squeezing oranges, a noblewoman making coffee, a princess frying–"

"Sheriff," Emma brandishes a meat fork. Gold visualizes her with a sword instead.

"A sheriff frying bacon and a wizard with a waffle iron."

"This is America," Belle shrugs. "Where titles mean next to nothing."

"Indeed," Gold flips the first waffle onto a platter. "Where a man is judged by the golden perfection of his waffles."

"Well, then, I'm screwed," Emma confesses. "I burn water."

"Perhaps, Ms. Swan, you were born for bigger things. You do, after all, possess the genes of an ogre-killing archer and a sword-slashing dragon slayer."

"Cripes. Thanks for reminding me, Gold. No way I can live up to that. Good thing the only ogres and dragons we got here are in Henry's book."

"Well," Gold pours the batter for the next waffle. "Perhaps the opportunity to test yourself will arise sooner than you think."

"Sounds like you're about ready to tell me about that first favor," Emma remarks as she turns the bacon.

"After breakfast. You're going to need fortification."

"Crap on a cracker. That doesn't sound good. Well, at least tell us what this curse thing was for. From the sheer size of it, it must've been a helluva lot of work, so what was it supposed to accomplish?" Emma motions to her father. "Hand me that platter, will you, David? Bacon's almost done." Preoccupied with her cooking, Emma is slow to notice Gold's silence, but when the bacon is drained and plated, she directs her attention to him again. "Well?"

"Half the story now, the other half when you've fulfilled your first obligation." Gold tosses a second waffle onto a platter.

"Why can't you make things simple?" David groans.

"Ask Henry: the smart way to run an operation is on a need-to-know basis."

David's contemplating a response, but Belle stays him with a gentle hand. "Don't bother, David. Be grateful he's willing to tell you this much."

Gold examines the third waffle and, deciding it's golden enough, flips it onto the platter and launches number four. "Be seated, children, and I shall tell you the story of a fresh-faced princess, her stable boy boyfriend, and the queen of all stage mothers. Once upon a time, there was a miller's daughter named Cora. . . ."

* * *

David, Gold and Emma leave Belle and Snow in the kitchen, cleaning up–but also talking about the baby that might have been. From his den, Gold can hear their soft but intense voices; he is grateful that Belle has a confidante, but his guilt gnaws at him. No one except Regina knows his role in the curse, and he wishes it could stay that way, but he gave his word this morning to Emma to tell her the other half of the story–his–when she's retrieved the True Love potion.

He opens the case lying on his roller top desk. Emma is impressed; David draws in a deep breath. "Wow." The former prince reverently removes the sword from the case and holds it lightly, as though afraid it will crumble to dust. "Emma, this was mine. I fought a war with this sword."

"Cool." Emma runs a finger across the flat of the blade.

"And fought a dragon," Gold reminds him. "As will you, Ms. Swan, today."

"What the f–" "What're you talking about, Gold?" Father and daughter talk over each other.

He waits for them to calm down. "I believe, David, you'll find the sword is in excellent condition, having been recently sharpened and well taken care of; and I believe, Emma, you'll find it more than adequate to defeat Maleficent. Perhaps you'd like to tell this story, David?"

David is inspecting his treasure, one of the few objects, other than his horse and his truck, that he cares about. "Well, it all started–"

"Once upon a time," Emma corrects him. "You have to start with 'once upon a time.'"

"Fine," David sighs, laying the sword back in the case. "Once upon a time there was a prince-well, really, a shepherd in prince's clothing–who fell in love with your mother, who was, like Gold said in his story, being harassed by Regina. The prince wanted to find her-Snow, I mean, not Regina–because she–Regina, I mean–put her under a sleeping curse and everybody knows you can wake them up if their true love kisses them. And there was this weird little guy with a helluva lot of magic, and–"

"David," Emma raises a staying hand. "Just cut to the chase, huh? You're confusing me."

"Right, well, Rumplestiltskin here made me a deal: he'd help me find your mom if I'd put this Christmas ornament thing inside the belly of a dragon. See, inside the ornament was a potion. He said it was True Love, the most powerful potion in the world, and it has to be protected at all costs, so he-Gold, what the hell did you mean by having me put in a dragon? You expect Emma to go back to the Enchanted Forest to fetch your potion? You know we don't have a portal."

"Not necessary. The dragon is here."

"What?!"

"You gotta be nuts, Gold!"

"Lying, more like. I've lived in this town thirty years. If there was a dragon living here, don't you think I'd know it? The droppings alone would be impossible to hide."

"The dragon has been drugged. No eating; therefore, no droppings. And no noise or moving around," Gold explains. "Regina just couldn't resist bringing her to Storybrooke."

"Her? The dragon is a her?"

"Her name is Maleficent."

"And where did Regina hide a dragon?"

"In the basement of the library, of course."

"Oh. Of course. And now I'm gonna take that sword and go down there and split the dragon open so I can scoop True Love from its belly." Emma crosses her arms and taps her foot.

"Well, you don't have to go alone. I'll operate the elevator for you."

"No," David interrupts. "I'm going."

"Pardon me, Your Highness, but it has to be Emma. She's the savior; it's her destiny," Gold insists.

"You up for this?" David raises an eyebrow at his daughter.

"I didn't have anything else to do today." Emma picks up the sword. "This thing's a lot heavier than it looks."

"Gets even heavier when you're running away from a dragon with it," David cautions. "You aren't going alone, Emma. I'm going with you." He takes the sword from her and swings it above his head, testing his arm. "Yeah. Feels right. We'll get you a lighter sword."

"All I need are my buddies Smith and Wesson," Emma pats the handgun she keeps in the back of her jeans.

"Got news for you, daughter: dragon hide is like a foot-thick wall of rubber," David instructs. "Unless you manage to shoot Mal in the eye, you're going to need a sword."

"Crap on a cracker," Emma mutters. "So where do we get a women's size sword?"

The two Charmings look to Gold, who merely jingles his keys in invitation. "We'll take my car. It so happens I have your mother's sword as well." He calls into the kitchen, "Belle, we're going out to run an errand. We'll be back in time for my first appointment."

"Okay, Rumple. Bring back a carton of eggs," Belle calls back.

"I swear," Emma remarks, following the men out the door. "When I wished on my birthday candle to have something exciting happen to me, tag-teaming a dragon wasn't what I was thinking of." She stares at her father, who's younger than she is, and the pawnbroker, who's so old he can't even remember his age. "Not even close."

* * *

In a few minutes she and her dad are stepping off an ancient, manually operated elevator into a cavern (not a basement; she'll be sure to correct Gold on that point when they go back up to the main floor). Each of them has a freshly sharpened sword in hand.

In a stage whisper, Gold calls down to them, "Do you see her? Do you see Maleficent?"

David looks up at the worried pawnbroker. "You wanna come down and help us look?"

"Oh no, dearie. That's not my role in this story." He hates to torture his Armani with the thick layer of dust coating the linoleum, but there's no other way he can follow the proceedings in the basement but to lie on his stomach and lean over the edge of the elevator shaft. As he observes the action below, his fingers tingle with the memory of magic. How easy this task would be and how simple if he could do it all himself with a few spells, but for the moment, he's still plain old Gold, human; not unless–_until_ the heroes have fulfilled their assignment will Rumplestiltskin the sorcerer return. So, his fingers tingling and his nose twitching from dust, he listens and watches and speculates: what would Rumplestiltskin do if he were down there?

"Then shut up and let us hunt." David signals to Emma: he will go one direction, she the other. "No more birthday wishes for me," she mutters. And then she backs into something big and scaly and cold and breathing. "Ohhh, crap. Uh, Dad? I think I found her."

Paralyzed with fear, Emma can only stare over her shoulder as the wall behind her shifts, then rises up and becomes a gigantic winged thing that roars and tosses its head and shoots flames from its snout. "Dad? What do I do?" She stuffs the sword into the scabbard tied to her belt and reaches for her Smith & Wesson.

David is gesturing wildly in the direction opposite his own. "Emma, run!" He shouts.

Emma runs, shouting back, "Are you telling me dragons can't run?"

"They can't. Too heavy. They can fly though."

As if taking the cue, the dragon rises awkwardly into the air and pursues Emma. David plants his feet squarely, raises his sword above his head and swings it with both hands, then sends it, straight as one of Snow's arrows, at the beast's throat, but the beast rises at the last minute and the sword bounces uselessly off the armored belly. As Emma swings around and fires off a round from her Smith & Wesson, David rushes forward to retrieve his sword and try again. "Emma! I told you that won't work. Throw your sword. Try to strike its eye or its throat or the area right over the heart. The skin is thinner there."

"What?" Emma's having trouble hearing over the dragon's roar. She gapes as the beast lands on its spindly legs right in front of her, blocking her escape route. She keeps firing, the bullets keep bouncing, and when they're gone she throws the gun, aiming for the dragon's eye but it enters the creature's mouth and is swallowed.

"Emma! Throw your sword!"

Emma glances backwards. If she takes two more steps back, she'll drop off a cliff. There's nothing else for it: she squeezes her eyes shut and flings the sword.

There's a tremendous roar, a burst of flame that singes Emma's eyebrows, then a moan and a shower of ash raining down on the sheriff and her shepherd/dragon slayer father. "Emma, you did it!"

Gold calls down, "Congratulations, Ms. Swan! Now look for the ornamental egg."

As David runs toward her, she opens her eyes. Her sword clangs as it hits the rocks, kicking up a cloud of ash. There's another clang as a big Christmas ornament drops from the sky, hits a boulder, bounces and lands at Emma's feet.

"Are you all right?" David grabs her elbows, turns her toward the light beaming from the elevator shaft and inspects her for injuries. "Any burns?"

"I'm okay, except. . . ." Emma presses her hand to her mouth. "I wish I hadn't eaten that second waffle."


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

The ornamental egg is a beautiful thing, though perhaps a little too flashy for modern tastes, and he created it, not by transforming something else but by combining magic with thought. The former method would have been more economical—he could have easily transformed a pinecone or a stone into this egg-shaped case and doing so would have required less magic—but he wanted this container to be brand-new, a product of pure imagination, because it would shelter the greatest achievement wizardry had ever seen, would ever see; nothing he or any other sorcerer would do henceforth could compare with his production of the True Love Potion.

With a quick glance at Emma, who sets the jeweled container in his outstretched hands, and her father, who had unwittingly provided half the necessary ingredients for this potion, for just a second Gold wonders whether he could recreate the formula using samples from other True Lovers—himself and Belle, for instance. Would the magic produced from a different couple be different from the fuchsia-colored liquid now in the vial? Would it act different, smell different? Then the solid-gold egg is placed in his hands and he draws it to his chest, cradling it as he once cradled a precious infant for whom he'd sacrificed so much. His fingers stroke the raised patterns on the ornate case: fleurs de lis and interlocking diamonds. As a practitioner of magic, he is proud of his achievement and fully cognizant of the fact that this potion can grant him powers surpassing any ever known. Surrounding the egg with his arms, he can feel the vibration of the magic contained within; that's how powerful the potion is. Even with an inch of solid gold between him and the potion, the cells in his fingertips are dancing, pulling towards the power, and his mouth comes alive with the long-forgotten taste of magic, the flavors of treacle and brimstone and exotic spices. He hasn't even unleashed the magic yet, but his body remembers and yearns.

His imagination fires with thoughts of all the things he will be able to do with this great power: his magic might even be freed from the laws that have constrained it. What if he now has the ability to raise the dead or bring forth love where none exists? But Rumplestiltskin, while the most skilled and learned of all the Dark Ones, is, his predecessors would say, the least ambitious. Everything he's achieved in magic has been in service to one goal only—one disappointingly ordinary and very human goal.

"So what are you going to do with it?" David is asking.

"Huh?" Gold only half-hears the question.

"I figure we've got a right to know. After all, I risked my life twice to protect that thing."

"If this is a love potion," Emma begins.

But Gold interrupts her. "Not 'a love potion,' Ms. Swan. A _True Love_ potion—_the_ True Love potion. There is not and never has been another."

"I stand corrected," Emma concedes. "_Since_ this is the True Love potion, what's it do? Does it make people fall in love?"

"It's my hope," Gold says, "that it will accomplish much more."

"Which would be?"

"Forgiveness."

"That sounds like the beginning of another story," Emma smiles. "The one you promised to tell me after I fulfilled this end of our bargain."

"Very soon, Ms. Swan," Gold assures her. He wants to get rid of David first; he intends to swear Emma to secrecy before he tells her the rest of the story. The fewer people who know about his role in the curse, the better; she will have to be told in order to take him to Bae, but no one else need know: certainly not her parents, who would probably promptly toss him in jail—with Regina, once she's caught, going into the adjacent cell—nor the townsfolk, who foolishly tend to hunt down monsters with their useless pitchforks and pickaxes. And certainly not Belle, who's got way too much to deal with as it is.

And certainly not Belle, who—if he's brutally honest with himself—is too new to loving him again to forgive him for the curse that fractured families and dumped them into false lives. . . the curse that gave her a lie in place of a baby. No, it's too soon for her to hear the full story. "This is a very precious object," he says of the egg. "We need to take it somewhere safe."

"Besides, we need to get cleaned up," David suggests, brushing ash from his denim jacket. "I've got dragon all over me. Let's go back—"

But a honking car horn breaks in and a Honda appears around the corner, coming to a stop just behind Gold's Caddy. Belle jumps out, leaving the engine running. "There you are!" she sounds exasperated. "I went to the grocery and Clark's—what are you doing here?" She peers past the trio and into the library, the doors of which stand open for the first time ever.

"We, uh, had an errand," Gold says, then spins the question around. "Why were you looking for me? Is something wrong?"

"You're late," Belle points up at the clock above the library. "And your cell phone's off so I couldn't call you. Ms. Crawford arrived at the house fifteen minutes ago. Mary—I mean, Snow—is keeping her occupied, but the next appointment will arrive at ten."

"Well, every lawyer I've ever known has always been late to appointments," Emma supplies. "It makes them seem more valuable, you know? Plus they get paid by the hour."

Gold frowns at her. "Thank you, Ms. Swan, I think."

Belle yanks at his sleeve. "Come on, Rumple, we need to get you back. Poor Ms. Crawford's scared to death she's going to lose custody of Little Tom."

"Come on, Emma, let's go home," David says. "See ya, Gold. Thanks for the waffles and Old Dragon Cutter." He pats the sword riding on his hip.

"I'll be by tonight, Gold," Emma informs him. "You're not getting off that easy."

"I never break a bargain, Ms. Swan," he assures her as he opens the driver's side door of the Caddy.

"Hey, what is that?" Belle asks, indicating the ornamental egg.

"A relic of the past," he answers, laying it carefully on the passenger seat before climbing behind the steering wheel. "And a hope for the future. I'll meet you back at the house shortly, sweetheart."

* * *

He enters the house through the basement and hides the egg in his tool cabinet. It's an unworthy storage for such a precious potion, but his safe is in his den, where Snow and Ms. Crawford are sipping tea. No one comes into the basement. Besides Belle, no one knows his house even has a basement because he's never had visitors. . .because he's never had friends other than the Doves. Ever. With Belle living under his roof now, he feels the prick of loneliness at that realization. He's lived with the lack of companionship for centuries now, stretching back far before he became the Dark One: no one wants the company of a child whose father rejected him, nor that of an army deserter whose wife flaunted her infidelity.

Just as well, he used to tell himself; the Dark One may keep his secrets safe then. And then Belle came along with her curiosity and her caring.

He'll have to tell her about the potion, soon. And eventually, the curse and Milah and Hordor and Hook and Pan and the entire cast of characters from his sordid life. She needs to know what she's getting into. When she took her vow to go with him forever, she was naïve and uninformed. Just as Zoso had done to Rumplestiltskin, Rumple had done to her, withholding information that could have caused her to refuse the deal he offered her. She deserves full disclosure; she's earned it, right enough, after all she's been dragged through for his sake.

He brushes off his jacket, straightens his tie and climbs the stairs that lead into the kitchen. He washes his face at the sink, buying a few seconds to collect himself before he enters the den in long, confident strides. "Ms. Crawford, Ms. Blanchard, sorry to keep you waiting. Now," he picks up his Mont Blanc fountain pen. "Suppose you tell me your situation, Ms. Crawford."

Snow discreetly excuses herself.

As the eleven o'clock client leaves, Belle enters, bearing a tray of sandwiches—but, with Belinda's culinary skills fresh in her mind, it's not cold cuts she's bringing, but real, substantial food: French dip roast beef with a Caesar salad.

"Thank you," he sighs, reaching for the sandwich, but she slaps his hand away.

"Huh uh." She opens a cloth napkin and tucks it into his shirt. "Don't want to drip on that three-hundred dollar tie." She sits across the desk from him and asks about the cases he's accepted so far. "You haven't turned anyone away, have you?"

"No," he admits, and she beams. "But, Belle, it's going to be a tremendous amount of work. Some of these people will probably end up fixing their own problems, but some will have to go to court. It could take months. Why should I be taking care of strangers when you need me?"

She abandons her salad, folding her hands in her lap and leaning back in the leather chair. "I do need you, especially now. I'm still feeling. . . unsettled. I'm still in mourning. And I'm angry–it's so damn unfair! But Rumple, I need something to occupy my mind, productive and positive work to do, and I think this—" she sweeps her hand in the air, indicating the shelves full of law books behind his desk—"will be good for us. Working together will bring us together." She sips her tea. "I called Archie for an appointment. I'm seeing him tomorrow afternoon."

He nods. "What time?"

"Rumple. . . he wants to see me and Jo first."

He chews slowly, thinking. "Not you and Jo and me?"

"Not yet. He says Jo and I need to close the door on our marriage first before we move on."

Gold falls silent, his chewing becoming angry.

"Rumple, it's you I love. It's always been you."

He wants to stay angry; he wants to wallow in jealousy because if he punishes himself hard enough, maybe she won't have to. But she's sitting across the antique desk looking as unguarded and giving as she did the day she sat on the dining table in the Great Hall and asked to be allowed to get to know him. He starts to smile in spite of himself and a drop of the French dip slides down his lip. His tongue darts out to catch it. She smiles then: "You look just like a little boy sometimes."

"Only you could overlook the gray hair and wrinkles." He smiles back at her. "Yes. Working together will be good for us." He holds back a sigh of frustration when he thinks about that potion waiting for him in the basement—and that son, waiting for him somewhere out there. "Perhaps this afternoon you could begin the research we'll need for these cases. Along with studying custody and marriage laws, we'll look for precedents." Then he shakes his head. "Although, dollars to donuts, we won't find any previous cases that involve the custody of children taken from their families by a curse."

"Well, our life has never been simple. Why should that change now?"

The doorbell rings and he protests when she swipes his unfinished sandwich, gathering the dishes onto the tray. "You don't want to keep another client waiting, do you?"

"When it's your cooking, I do," he grumbles, snatching the sandwich back. "Give him a sandwich and then he won't complain about the wait."

She laughs over her shoulder as she leaves to answer the door.

* * *

They're sitting on the back porch swing, watching the sun go down hand in hand like an old married couple as the dishwasher swishes in the background. They've worked hard today; they both had lessons to learn. They sway in blissful silence.

He wonders if there's a swing on the back porch at the ranch house.

Oh, but it's he, not Dove, that Belle is snuggled up to tonight, and he's going to do his damnedest to keep it that way. Gold feels a little guilty, but he assures himself that what Josiah must be feeling for Belle now is the loss of companionship, not the loss of love. It's Belinda that Josiah loved, and Belinda and the man Josiah was when under the curse no longer exist. Soon, what Josiah feels when he thinks back on that marriage will be a vague fondness and a dimming nostalgia. Or so Gold hopes.

And then Gold wonders if fondness and nostalgia are what Bae feels when he thinks about his father. Or is it hurt, anger—or worse, nothing at all?

The doorbell rings.

Belle moans and sits up, rubbing her eyes. "I was nearly asleep," she complains.

"Leave it," he urges. "Let them go away. They can come back tomorrow."

She stands slowly. "It might be important."

He hauls himself up with his cane and urges her to sit back down. "Rest. I'll get rid of them."

"Be nice, Rumple," she warns, but she lies down on the swing.

The sheriff in her red leather jacket is standing at his front door. "I'm back, like I said."

"So you did. So you are." But he blocks the doorway. "Don't you ever get tired, Ms. Swan?"

"A savior's work is never done," she quips. "Especially not when your mom's Snow White and your dad's Prince Charming."

"Point taken. Speaking of which?" He peers past her into the darkness.

"Oh, they're at home, getting some quality time with their grandson." Emma shakes her head in disbelief. "I have no idea how we'll explain this to other people when we leave here."

"You'll think of something." He allows her to hear the weariness in his voice. "It's nine o'clock. What did you come for that can't wait until tomorrow?"

"You promised me a story, remember?" Emma pushes her way into the foyer. "Bedtime's the perfect time for it."

"Oh. Yes. Well—"

"I'd like to hear a story too. Hi, Emma."

Caught, Gold grips the handle of his cane and forces a smile as he turns to face Belle.

"Hey, Lin. Thanks for breakfast this morning, by the way."

Gold surrenders, closing the door. "Won't you come in, Ms. Swan?"

"Let's go into the kitchen," Belle suggests. "I'll put on the kettle. I have some fresh cookies."

Gold trails after the women. He's trapped now. He starts planning how to edit the story, to leave out the parts that might cause Belle to give up on him. He's still editing when, cups of tea and plates of cookies distributed all around, the women finish their polite chatter and stare at him. Waiting for the truth in its entirety.

He pleads with Belle with his eyes.

"I've just come from a marriage based on falsehood," she reminds him softly.

He nods, understanding her implication; and she's right: she can't tolerate more deception. Nor can he. He stirs his tea, watching the cloud of milk dissipate. Then he sets his spoon down and looks at her nakedly. As he speaks, his voice is neither Gold's slow, solemn one nor Rumplestiltskin's high-pitched, fast-talking one. "All right. This is the story of an unwanted, abandoned child and a very much wanted but abandoned child. Once upon a time. . . ."


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

"Belle, you're tired. We put in a long day. This can wait–it's a long, complicated story."

"No, it won't wait. Both of us need this." Her hand covers his and squeezes. The gesture is both a reassurance of unwavering support and a warning not to dodge or duck. She will accept only the truth and she'll know it if he strays. Emma's not the only one with that built-in lie detector. "Remember: it's forever," she whispers.

"That vow's going to have to bear an awful weight," he cautions.

"We're strong enough."

They've all but forgotten their guest, who's busied herself with her tea, allowing them a hint of privacy. Now Gold catches Emma's eye and nods, indicating his–not his _willingness_, because he would never tell this story on his own volition, but his _acceptance_ of the task. In the tradition of the old ways, he starts in third person; he stays with it because it's easier to remain truthful if he doesn't have to say "I."

"Once upon a time, centuries before the founding of Avonlea, decades before the settlement of the Enchanted Forest, there was a village called Loameth in the northern Frontlands. In this village lived a man named Malcolm. He was handsome and healthy and strong, but he was also inclined to think himself more clever and cunning than he really was, and so he believed he should earn his living not as a laborer, as his father before him, nor a craftsman, as he might have become if he'd had the patience that comes with a practical dream. He saw himself acquiring quick wealth through gambling, and when that failed, he attempted unsuccessfully to take his living with con games, but he lacked the imagination and the perceptiveness to become skilled. Usually, his marks caught him and beat him. Sometimes it was he who was conned. More often than not, he was run out of town. He would wander the Frontlands, but when he was desperate he would come back to Loameth, where he had family, and they would take him in, until he got the wanderlust again.

"One day, he returned, half-starved, his arm broken from a failed con game, to find that he'd become a father. His. . . uh, sometime bedmate had delivered a son prematurely, and with no money for a midwife and a lack of proper nutrition and cleanliness, she came down with childbirth fever and died. A baby would only hold him back from his dreams, Malcolm thought, and besides, this one may not even be his, so he left again, and Malcolm's mother, widowed now, raised the baby. She called him Alexander, by which she meant to proscribe a role in life for him, for the name means 'protector of men.'

"Malcolm came in and out of their lives for years, until the woman died; and when he returned to Loameth again, he found Alexander living with a neighbor. The boy was small, still malnourished, but so were most of the villagers. His foster family didn't beat him, and so when he became old enough to think of running away, he didn't. But nor did they love him; like their other children, he was, to them, just another pair of hands to work the farm. The boy was not strong, but he had a capacity for learning that his foster family took advantage of, and as he grew, they taught him to read and write and cipher, preparing him to eventually take over the business end of the farm.

"When Alexander was seven or eight–peasants in those days never kept track of birthdays–Malcolm showed up again, sick with fever; but no one would take him in, so he slept in barns and stole chickens until the farmers chased him out. One night, still feverish, he came for Alexander, and Alexander went willingly; he thought it meant his father needed him, perhaps cared for him. Alexander used his small size and big, innocent eyes to beg on the streets while his father lay shivering and sweating in alleys, and when begging wasn't enough, the kid stole from apple carts and butcher shops. And then Malcolm taught him how to pick pockets. Years later, Alexander came to suspect that had been Malcolm's intention all along for taking him from the farm. But it was too late to run away: the foolish kid had begun to hope.

"Malcolm recovered from the fever, but not his thieving ways, and he found a new scheme: while he ran the shell game, Alexander would weave in and out of the crowd, picking pockets. That was how they survived for a year or more. Too often, Malcolm would get caught at his shell game, but Alexander was seldom caught. Malcolm began to resent his growing dependence on his son. When he drank, Malcolm would accuse Alex of stealing from him, not just money, but stealing away Malcolm's youth, his dreams.

"One night, Malcolm showed up at the hovel that they'd been renting; he had with him another man, less drunk than he was. The man picked Alex up and set him on a tabletop, feeling his arms, inspecting his teeth. Then he shook his head and said, 'No, he ain't worth what you owe me. Pay me in coin.' Malcolm tried to persuade the man that Alex had wonderful skills that would earn back the man's investment many times over. The man said, 'He's so puny he'll be lucky to live another year. What's his name?' Malcolm answered, and the man snorted. 'Alexander is a name for kings, not spindly door rattlers. Tell you what: you give me the money that's hidden in your shoe. I won't give a ha' penny for the kid, but just for a laugh, I want you to change his name to something more appropriate.' Malcolm had the temerity to ask what the man would give him if he did that, and the man said, 'I won't beat you. At least, not tonight.' And so Malcolm agreed, and the man gave Alex a new name: Rumplestiltskin, which means 'little pole rattler.' It's also what goblins are called in some lands.

"They continued to wander, Malcolm and Rumplestiltskin, cheating and stealing, as Malcolm waited for his fortune to change, until one morning after a long drunk, Malcolm decided to be rid of the boy who was holding him back. He'd given up on the idea of selling him, so he pawned him off as an apprentice to two elderly sisters who made their living spinning wool and mixing potions. Rumple didn't want to be left behind and he begged like a dog to go with Malcolm, but eventually he acclimated. For the first time, he had a bed to sleep in, a fireplace to warm him, food and clothes, and a bit of affection from the sisters. And he learned a new trade, one he took to naturally. He had a gift for spinning, the sisters said.

"But who understands the minds of children? Rumple wanted his father so he ran away, taking with him a magic bean the sisters had given him. He found his father being beaten, but the men left Malcolm alone when the little boy intervened. Rumple offered the portal-creating bean as a means of escape in the expectation that, in a new land, they could stay together, and perhaps his father would learn to love him.

"But Malcolm had another idea. He wanted to escape to an entirely other life, one free of responsibilities and expectations: he wanted to be a child again, and the place to turn back the clock was Neverland. He surrendered his son and his soul for never-ending youth and magic. Rumple was returned to the spinsters, who did their best to mend him. He gave up then on his father.

"As he grew to be a man, his skills with the wheel and with bargaining grew. He made a good living, and when he came of age, he decided to take a wife. With the spinsters, he'd had a taste of what a family could be, and he longed for that comfort and affection from a family of his own. With a good income to offer, he went in search of a bride.

"Milah was the youngest of six daughters, two of whom had died in infancy–not uncommon in those days. She was attractive and vivacious and full of dreams, all the things that Rumple was not, and he fell for her. To marry him was to elevate her station, so her family approved the match. Why she agreed–she did have other suitors–he wondered about, but he was too besotted to question his luck. They married after a two-month courtship. He learned a great deal from her, but she couldn't teach him to daydream as she did; he'd seen enough of that, he thought, from Malcolm. He wanted only security in his work, in his village, in her arms. For a year she put her dreams aside to give him that. She told him she was happy; he didn't look closely enough to see otherwise.

"Then came a war and a draft notice, and the foolish spinner saw a chance to overcome his past, make a new reputation for himself, for the family he expected to have, so he went off to become a war hero.

"But the Fates sometimes have plans for us that they fail to inform us of, and for the foolish spinner they had big plans, because of his gullibility. A blind Seer was sent to him in the training camp; she informed him his wife would soon bear him a son. But, she said, 'Your actions on the battlefield will leave him fatherless.' Unimaginative as he was, he took that to mean he would be killed in battle, so in desperation–but not cowardice, Belle, I swear, not cowardice but a determination that his son wouldn't grow up fatherless as he had. In desperation, he thought to desert, but he'd seen what the army did to deserters, so he. . . There was a sledgehammer nearby and he. . . He picked it up and swung it and crippled himself.

"It was a small price to pay to give his son a father, he thought, but the people of the Frontlands didn't see it that way. They reviled him when he came home. The kinder ones simply refused to do business with him or underpaid him when they bought his thread; others beat him, stole from him, shamed him before his wife and child. Rumple could barely provide for his family. His wife refused him the comfort of her arms and her bed, but again, he thought it was a price he was willing to pay to be with his son. He scarcely noticed when Milah would wander off at night.

"Eventually little things started to change: Milah would appear in a new dress, or a new bracelet, or have food on the table that Rumple knew they hadn't the money to buy, sometimes exotic foods that he knew had come off the ships arriving in the port. He didn't question it. He had his son and his spinning and that was sufficient.

"Then he caught her one night, in a tavern, drinking and gambling with pirates. The strange thing was, she looked lovelier, more carefree than he'd ever seen her, and he wanted her, not as a wife any more, because there was no love between them; he'd finally realized that. But watching her there in the tavern, flushed with drink and her flirtations with the pirates, he wanted to bed her. He felt ashamed that that was all he wanted from her. When their son came into the tavern, asking for her, it was her turn to feel ashamed. They went home–to try again, Rumple assumed. When their son was asleep, she allowed him to take her, more roughly than he ever had before, because he was jealous and angry. Her fingernails drew his blood.

"The next day, she was gone. Taken by pirates, he was told, but he knew better. Still, Baelfire was only six and needed his mother, so Rumple went to the docks. He knew the name of the pirate who had her: she'd called it out the night before as she clawed her husband's back.

"Rumple found the ship easily; it was the biggest in the port, and its commander was unmistakable: tall, handsome, young, cocky and dressed in black leather, everything Rumple wasn't. Rumple begged for the return of his wife, but the pirate insisted on dueling for the right to possess her. The army had trained Rumple in sword fighting, but that was many years ago, and he was lame now, still undernourished, and afraid. Too afraid to fight for a woman who didn't love him, even for Bae's sake. The pirate laughed and booted him off the ship.

"The villagers had one more reason now to revile him, but his thread was too good to be completely ignored, so he eked out a living, lonely as it was. He didn't mind, except for Bae; Bae was such an outgoing, athletic kid, and he needed friends. He had them, but they would sometimes take advantage of him, turn on him because of his ridiculous father. But when it was just the two of them, eating supper by the fire, Rumple could forget the villagers, as Bae never could. Neither of them missed Milah. Rumple had told Bae that she had died, and after that, the boy never spoke of her. She had never been a big part of his life anyway.

"When Bae turned twelve–Rumple did celebrate his birthdays–ogres again attempted to conquer the Frontlands. They'd been driven back the first time by a powerful sorcerer that the Duke had gained control over, but the Duke had died and now they had returned. The new Duke didn't seem in a hurry to drive them out, as his father had been: it was rumored that his coffers were being filled by the taxes he imposed upon the duchy to pay the army. Unpaid, unfed, unequipped, the army couldn't buy recruits, so another draft was called, and when the recruiters ran out of healthy young men, they started taking women, and then old men, and finally teenagers. Bae's time was fast approaching. They tried to sneak away in the night. What else could Rumple do, Belle? You're a brave one, like Bae was, but Rumple was never brave or powerful or particularly cunning. Bae would be drafted, to die at the hands of ogres. You know what ogres do to their captives. So Rumple took Bae and ran.

"Still, the recruiters caught them. Rumple tried to beg, but the recruiters forced him to kneel before them and kiss the captain's boot. In three days' time, Hordor would return to take Bae.

"An old beggar, seeing this, came to Rumple's aid, or so Rumple thought. The beggar advised Rumple to gain control over the Dark One, told him how to do it, but Rumple was petrified at the notion, so Zoso told him how he could become the Dark One himself. There was no time left. Rumple took the advice, stole the Dark dagger from the Duke, and he killed the Dark One with it. As the magic transferred into him, Rumple felt an instant rush of strength that drove all fear from him. He could feel the magic surging though his veins and even as his skin changed color and his spinner's fingers became claws, he felt invincible. No one would ever beat him or humiliate him again, and he could now protect Bae. Do you see, Belle, how intoxicating that was? And he had plans to do such good with this magic, not just for himself and Bae but for the village. But as the magic settled into his body and slipped a noose around his mind, he was already irretrievably caught in darkness.

"Beneath the bloody dagger, the old Dark One transformed into a man, into the old beggar Zoso, and Rumple realized he'd been conned. He also realized he was now a murderer. But to protect his son, no action was unjustified. He slew the recruiters. Bae watched in horror and shame. From that moment on, their relationship was irreparably broken. Bae feared his father.'


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

"Rumple kept his word to end the war and bring the children home; he performed other acts of charity as well, and he made his and Bae's life very comfortable. But he became increasingly dependent upon magic and increasingly susceptible to the dark forces woven into his brain. Soon the only part of Rumple that remained was his heart. As long as Bae occupied it, the Dark One couldn't get in. And Belle, that has never changed. You and Bae are my shield.

"Rumple couldn't control his rage in those days. Later, he learned how to control the magic and how to bargain with the Dark One, but in the first year, he was as much a destroyer as his predecessors had been.

"Bae was losing him, so Bae called. . . called upon the Reul Ghorm. And oh gods, it was the spinsters all over again–maybe it was the Fates forcing an outcome, for the fairy gave Bae a magic bean to escape the hell their life had become. He thought it was meant as a way for Rumple to escape the Dark One too, and he tried to take Rumple with him, but the Dark One spoke paranoia into Rumple's ear and he clung, sobbing and trembling, to his dagger as Bae fell away from him, falling into the Land without Magic. Falling into this world, alone.

"He went crazy then, Rumple did. He'd done seemingly crazy things before, but always with a calculated purpose, but this time he tore through the village, setting fires, raising whirlwinds, throwing lightning, upturning carts and uprooting trees with a flick of his hand. When he was finished with the town he kept walking, into the forest; more destruction and upheaval; kept walking, village after village, day after day, destroying, and finally when he was worn out he sat down on a mountaintop and shouted until his voice left him, and then, finally, he wept. His rampage had ruined an entire kingdom. For the first time since he'd killed Zoso, he felt cursed.

"When he had nothing left inside, he was too tired to go on, so he built a castle right there on the mountain. He holed up there. I think he wanted to die there. A year, two, he'd been gone; who knows? It doesn't matter when you're immortal and alone. But one morning he awoke to a bird singing and a sharp feeling in his gut that he finally recognized as hope. What if the bean had sent Bae to a land of magic instead? Magic, like water, seeks its own, and Bae was no mage: what if he thought the wrong thought as he fell into the vortex?

"Rumple ran back to the Forest, the village, his cottage, in search of a sign. He tortured the villagers for information, but no one had found a lost kid with brown eyes. He decided to go to the source of all this trouble.

"Rumple summoned the fairy, demanding her assistance, but she told him it was his own fault he'd lost Bae. He badgered her until she inadvertently revealed that perhaps a curse could take him to the Land without Magic.

"I've often doubted whether the fairy expected Rumple to choose Bae over the dagger. It would seem to be the easiest way to destroy the Dark One: send him to a land without magic. But good can't exist without evil, creation can't come about without destruction, white magic can't exist without dark, and the Blue Fairy can't exist without the Dark One. If I knew that, wouldn't she? And would she wish herself out of existence to be rid of me?

"Perhaps the fairy never intended for Rumple to go with Bae; if that's the case, she was very clever, because the loss of his son effectively rerouted Rumple. From that moment on, his only thought was to find his son again. As an unleashed Dark One, he could have wreaked havoc across the realms, but instead he studied magic in all its forms, searching for a way to find Bae. Sending his son away was, you see, a very effective way of manipulating the Dark One, distracting him from the pursuit of chaos. He shut himself away with his potions and his books, coming out into the world only to acquire things that might help him build knowledge and power.

"He found the Seer again, the same one who had pushed him into maiming himself. He took her power–as Zoso had been, she was exhausted from the burden and wanted to be rid of it, though it meant her death. As she died she gave him a gift: she predicted he would find his son again but only through a curse, and that curse would have to be cast by someone else. An inconvenience, he thought; he would now have to wait for the right soul to come along, because only once in a lifetime does a person become so hopeless as to permanently turn his back on humanity, and only when a soul has reached that state is it ready to cast a curse. After a century of study and practice, Rumple gained sufficient control of his Sight to find the person who could cast the curse, and then he had to set the stage for her arrival. He had to make her life miserable from the very start, rob her of all opportunities for love, beginning with her mother. That mother was the miller's daughter, whose story I told you yesterday.

"I told you that Rumple taught Cora magic, so that she would have a purpose in life: a way to achieve the status she craved. Without that purpose, she might have fallen prey to love and kindness, but that purpose gave her the strength to take her own heart out. Only a heartless woman could raise the curse caster. I told you about Daniel, who very nearly distracted Regina from her destiny, until Cora set her on the path.

"What I didn't quite tell you yesterday was that Rumple very nearly was yanked off the path too, by love. Or what he thought was love. I suppose in some ways Cora was like Milah: young and beautiful and headstrong. But as he instructed her, he saw that she was like the Dark One: calculating, manipulative, calloused, and lusting after blood as well as power. She gave him permission to be evil; she thrilled in it. She made him feel accepted, admired, and what man doesn't crave that? And when he touched her soft skin she yielded to him with a passion as violent as his. He thought he loved her and he said so. She said she loved him. She promised to leave Prince Henry for him. They would become the King and Queen of Darkness, wreaking havoc to their hearts' content.

"The space in his heart where he kept his love for Bae fought against this craving, but it was losing ground; he would have surrendered himself to Cora. Though who knows? Perhaps he would have eventually fought his way free of her. It became a moot point, because she chose Henry, whom she could easily control. Perhaps she suspected Rumple would have someday recovered from her. She chose Henry and yanked her heart out so that she would never be swayed by love again, and Rumple retreated to his castle again to lick his wounds. He decided then he would never allow a woman to get under his skin again, and he held to that decision for another century, until yet another Ogres War and a plea for help led him to a lovely, brave, curious and very patient woman who, he discovered, could make him turn away from evil and towards the love he'd always needed.

"But before then. . . before he recovered the flicker of humanity in himself, while he was still reeling from Cora's betrayal, the opportunity for revenge fell into his lap and he simply couldn't. . . Yes, he could have resisted it, but he didn't. When the pirate crossed his path again, he wanted to drive a sword into him, watch his blood gush across the dock, hear him scream for mercy with his last breath. Not because he'd stolen Rumple's wife, but because he'd stolen Bae's mother. But as he plunged his hand into the pirate's chest to yank out his heart, Rumple was interrupted by the woman the pirate had claimed was dead. It wouldn't be the last time that particular lie was used on him.

"Milah offered him a way out of his misery: a magic bean, the last in known existence, the way to Bae. He would have gladly traded his entire fortune and all his magic for it, but then the Dark One spoke in his ear, reminding him she'd betrayed him, humiliated him, abandoned him, much as his father had–and yet that was _acceptable_ to him; he would have paid that price in return for the years of happiness he'd had with Bae. But what was unacceptable, unbearable to him, was that what she had done to him, she'd done to Bae as well. Her actions had left Bae motherless, and it was her fault, her damned wanderlust and lust for a pretty pirate that had brought them to this. If she had been the wife and mother she had vowed to be, none of this would have ever happened. Bae would have grown up to be a. . .merchant maybe, with kids of his own, and maybe with a passel of gray-eyed brothers and sisters and I–when she sneered at me and said she had never loved me, I reached into her chest and pulled out her heart and crushed it to dust, and oh gods, if I hadn't done that, if I hadn't done that. . . !"

"You'd have gotten the bean," Emma's tone is matter-of-fact. "And found Bae. You sold your son out for the satisfaction of revenge."

Belle is on her knees before him now, stroking his hair, drawing him into her chest where he can hide his tears from Charming's daughter. Even here, where he's richer in knowledge as well as money than the lot of them put together, he's still vulnerable to humiliation. Belle lets him hide against her. She smoothes his hair and kisses his cheek and whispers, "It's not over. We'll find him."

No, it's not over: there's more of the story to tell. But she's holding him, loving him, because she doesn't know it all, and he needs her. "Tell me about him," she urges. "This child you would have given up magic for."

"But I didn't," he snaps. He pushes her away. "I clung to the dagger then and after I chose revenge over a real opportunity, I leaned on magic again. The curse that you all think was Regina's, I created it and steered her into casting it."

"Three hundred families torn apart and dragged to a strange land," Emma clarifies.

Belle crumples onto her haunches.

"Yes," he admits.

"Memories clouded over with lies."

"Yes."

"Children and parents pulled apart, some of them thrust into fake families."

"Yes."

"A baby torn from her mother's. . . A newborn baby. . . ." Emma gulps her tears.

"Yes."

Belle is staring at him, shaking her head, her hand covering her mouth.

"To bring you here. Not to end a war or escape a plague. Just to transport you here. Nothing more."

"Yes."

Belle scrambles to her feet and backs away from him. "Jo and me and Adelena," she stutters. "Your curse did this."

"I grew up in foster homes. I thought my parents had dumped me like trash on the side of the road. And all so–what? So I could be your curse breaker?" Emma stands over him. His head is bowed; he's small and old in his kitchen chair with his cane lying at his feet. "So I could fetch your potion for you?" She slaps him. "I'm done being your puppet, you son of a bitch." She walks out, ignoring his call.

"Ms. Swan, I'm sorry! We can fix this, but I need your help."

The front door slams and Belle jerks as though awakened from a spell. She doesn't look back as she starts up the stairs.

"Belle! Where are you going?"

She sounds tired. "I promised you forever, but that doesn't mean it has to be in the same room. I need some time alone. I'm going to sleep in the nursery."

He listens to her footfalls recede. Then a door closes and there's only the sound of the grandfather clock ticking in the dining room.

And magic throbbing in the basement below.

Magic can soften the hardened heart of the savior, bend her toward serving a father in his quest to reunite with his son. With magic he can enter Emma's dreams and pluck the strings of her guilt. It won't be difficult: she once gave up her child too and now will fight witches and dragons to win him back. Surely she can understand how Gold feels.

With magic he can underscore the music Belle listens to as she cooks, plant subliminal nuggets of emotion: tiny and trivial memories of their life together, here and in the old world. So she can't forget, won't turn away from him.

Magic can unravel the memories of the past thirty years, the false memories that it created. Blow away the anger and the grief in one gentle sweep. They don't need divorce papers and custody agreements; they just need magic. Rumplestiltskin owes them that, doesn't he?

He retrieves the ornamental egg from the basement, but instead of hopping in his car to complete his mission, he sits down heavily in the kitchen again, the egg in his lap. He's wrung out emotionally and exhausted physically, and upstairs, the only woman who ever truly loved him is lying alone; she's turned her back on him, as they all have. Like Milah and Bae, Belle is ashamed of him.

This. He rolls the egg between his hands, feeling the magic hum. Long ago, this power seeped into his soul and blackened it; when he awoke from the curse, magicless, he wasn't free: magic had left its stain. Using magic to manipulate others' dreams and thoughts is just a more impressive version of the shell game. Conned emotion is less than worthless. Love must be given freely or it's not love at all.

Magic con games are not the way. As clearly as if she were standing here, speaking to him, he can hear Belle say that the return of magic will not result in the return of Baelfire–or her. But the return of his humanity might. Has he been wrong all along: is forgiveness the highest magic?

If it's not too late. Is there a limit to the patience of love?

He carries the egg to his den and locks it in his safe, and then he reaches for his last shred of strength, which he finds not in three centuries of accumulated knowledge or power, but in fragile, newborn hope. Listing to the left, he drags himself upstairs and knocks at the door of the nursery.

He read it somewhere: _Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; k__nock, and the door will be opened to you. _Powerful words of hope.

He draws in a breath and leans heavily on his cane, waiting.

The door opens.


End file.
